■"•i- 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADOWS 


OF 


GERMAN    LIFE 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 
VOL.  IL 


PHILADELPHIA . 

CAREY,  lea  &  BLANCHARD. 

1833. 


Philadelphia : 

Printed  by  James  Kay,  Jun.  &  Co. 

Race  above  Fourth  Street. 


BLACK    FRITZ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2013 


http://archive.org/details/lightsshadowsofg21mont 


BLACK    FRITZ. 


It  was  a  dull  rainy  evening  in  the  autumn  of  1648^ 
when  Count  Darmstein,  accompanied  by  his  niece,  the 
young  Baroness  Albertine  Branov/,  re-entered  the 
gates  of  his  ancient  castle,  on  the  banks  of  the  Moldau, 
after  an  absence  of  many  years.  The  treaty  of  West- 
phalia had  just  put  an  end  to  the  disastrous  thirty  years' 
war;  during  a* great  part  of  which  the  count  had  per- 
sisted in  remaining  at  Darmstein,  unappalled  by  the 
alarming  events  that  had  long  since  driven  most  of  the 
German  nobles  from  their  isolated  castles,  to  seek 
protection  in  the  fortified  cities;  and  it  was  not  till  the 
Swedish  army,  under  Torstensohn,  had  crossed  the 
Erzgeberge  into  Bohemia,  that  he  could  be  persuaded 
to  abandon  the  home  to  which  he  was  so  fondly 
attached,  for  a  safer  z^esidence  within  the  walls  of 
Prague. 

He  had  cause  to  repent  this  obstinacy,  for  in  their 
flight  he  and  his  family,  consisting  of  his  wife  and  two 
sons,  narrowly  escaped  being  made  prisoners  by  a 
Swedish  foraging  j)arty,  within  a  few  leagues  of  the 
city.  A  body  of  troops,  sent  to  reinforce  the  garri- 
son, fortunately  came  up  in  time  to  effect  their  rescue; 
but  the  fright  proved  fatal  to  the  countess,  whose 
health  had  been  declining  for  some  time.  Her  death 
was  soon  followed  by  that  of  her  eldest  boy,  and 
the  count  would  probably  have  sunk  under  his  afflic- 
tion, had  he  not  removed  to  Vienna,  at  the  instance  of 
his  brother-in-law,  Baron  Branow,  with  whom  he  con- 
tinued to  reside,  till  the  long  desired  peace  allowed 
him  to  return  to  the  domains  of  his  ancestors. 

VOL.  II. — A  2 


b  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

At  the  time  my  tale  begins,  the  count's  only  son, 
Frederick,  who  had  spent  the  last  five  years  in  finish- 
ing his  education  at  the  university  of  Padua,  and  in 
visiting  some  of  the  principal  courts  of  Europe,  was 
expected  home.  He  was  an  amiable  young  man,  of 
good  figure  and  agreeable  manners,  which,  with  many 
accomplishments  rare  amongst  the  German  nobility  of 
that  period,  rendered  him  an  object  of  general  admi- 
ration. He  spoke  several  languages  fluently,  excelled 
in  music  and  painting,  and  possessed  a  remarkable 
talent  for  taking  likenesses,  which  had  won  him  the 
favour  of  many  a  fair  lady.  In  short,  he  was  a  prodigy 
for  the  time  and  class  to  which  he  belonged.  Fred- 
erick and  his  cousin,  Albertine  Branow,  had  long 
been  engaged  to  one  another,  family  interests  concur- 
ring with  the  inclination  they  had  mutually  manifested 
from  early  childhood.  The  old  count  loved  his  niece, 
not  only  for  her  resemblance  to  a  deceased  and  favour- 
ite sister,  but  for  her  open  and  generous  nature,  and  the 
cheerfulness  which,  originating  in  her  own  mind,  and 
not  in  external  circumstances,  brightened  the  every 
day  business  of  life.  On  her  part  Albertine  clung  to 
her  uncle  with  almost  filial  affection;  and  her  father, 
Baron  Branow,  being  about  to  depart  on  a  diplomatic 
mission,  she  accepted  with  pleasure  the  proposal  of 
accompanying  the  count  to  Bohemia;  where  it  was  the 
desire  of  both  parents  that  the  marriage  should  take 
place  as  soon  as  possible  after  the  return  of  Frederick. 

It  was  Albertine's  first  journey;  her  perambulations 
having  hitherto  been  confined  to  a  drive  on  the  Prater, 
or  a  stroll  in  the  imperial  gardens  of  Schonbrunn.  She 
was  delighted  with  the  novelty  of  all  she  saw;  and  the 
rich  plains  of  Austria,  animated  by  the  mirthful  acti- 
vity of  harvest,  accorded  with  the  gay  prospects  of 
happiness  floating  in  her  lively  imagination.  But  the 
scene  changed  when  they  crossed  the  mountainous 
frontier  of  Bohemia.  At  every  step  they  beheld 
traces  of  the  civil  and  religious  war  which  had  for  so 
long  devastated  Germany: — uncultivated  fields,  hedges 
trampled  down,  trees  felled  or  burnt,  and  ruined  vil- 
lages, where  the  meagre  and  squalid  peasantry  were 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  7 

building  up  wretched  hovels,  amid  the  blackened 
walls  of  their  once  comfortable  habitations.  Indigence 
and  despondency  reigned  in  the  towns,  and  wherever 
the  travellers  halted,  they  heard  terrifying  reports  of 
marauders  who  infested  the  country,  in  bands  so  nu- 
merous as  to  defy  the  insufficient  and  insubordinate 
military  force. 

Albertine's  spirits  sunk;  she  sat  silent  and  thought- 
ful beside  her  uncle,  to  whose  mind  these  scenes  of 
desolation  recalled  the  painful  circumstances  attendant 
on  his  flight  from  Darmstein.  Their  road  now  lay 
along  the  woody  bank  of  the  Moldau.  The  bright 
sun  which  had  cheered  the  commencement  of  their 
journey  was  overcast — heavy  rain  pattered  among  the 
trees,  and  chill  gusts  of  wind  scattered  the  yellow 
leaves,  which  rose  whirling  into  the  air,  and  then  fell 
into  the  dark  and  rapid  stream  below.  After  follow- 
ing for  some  miles  the  windings  of  the  river,  the  mas- 
sive towers  of  the  castle  suddenly  appeared  before  them 
on  the  summit  of  a  high  precipitous  rock. 

The  count  was  the  first  to  perceive  his  once  happy 
home.  He  silently  pointed  to  it,  while  a  deep  sigh 
revealed  that  his  thoughts  were  with  the  dead.  Alber- 
tine  understood  and  sympathized  with  his  feelings. 
Depressed,  and  struggling  against  a  vague  sense  of 
fear,  she  entered  her  future  abode,  the  dilapidated  as- 
pect of  which  was  ill  calculated  to  dissipate  gloomy 
impressions.  Nothing  presented  itself  to  her  view,  as 
they  passed  through  a  long  range  of  lofty  and  deserted 
apartments,  but  tattered  moth-eaten  tapestry,  defaced 
gilding,  broken  mirrors,  and  mutilated  chairs  and  tables. 
The  shattered  casements  were,  in  many  places,  boarded 
up;  several  of  the  doors  had  been  torn  ofi*  for  firewood, 
and  the  walls  disfigured  with  the  uncouth  scrawls  of 
an  idle  and  mischievous  soldiery. 

But  the  mind  of  Albertine,  naturally  cheerful  and 
courageous,  soon  prevailed  over  the  dark  presenti- 
ments which  had  clouded  it;  and  her  brow  resumed  its 
wonted  serenity,  when  the  gray-headed  seneschal 
opened  the  door  of  a  small  library,  to  which  an  air  of 
comparative  comfort  had  been  given  by  a  sufficient 


8  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

quantity  of  undamaged  furniture,  a  blazing  fire,  and  a 
table  laid  for  supper.  Albertine  busied  herself  in 
making  arrangements  for  her  uncle's  immediate  ac- 
commodation, and  at  length  succeeded  in  drawing  him 
out  of  his  melancholy  recollections,  by  talking  of  Fre- 
derick, and  of  the  prospect  of  his  soon  joining  them. 

But  days,  and  even  weeks  passed  on,  and  Frederick 
came  not.  He  had  arrived  at  Vienna  almost  imme- 
diately after  his  father's  departure:  but  he  was  still 
detained  there,  waiting  for  a  precious  collection  of 
paintings  he  had  purchased  in  Italy,  and  which  he 
was  anxious  to  have  framed  under  his  own  directions, 
before  they  were  transferred  to  the  gallery  at  Darm- 
stein. 

It  was  in  vain  that  his  fair  bride  remonstrated  against 
such  an  ungallant  preference  of  canvass  goddesses  and 
madonnas:  the  feelings  of  the  amateur  prevailed  over 
those  of  the  lover.  Fortunately  the  social  life  of  a 
great  city,  aided  by  natural  buoyancy  of  temper,  had 
prevented  the  germ  of  romance  in  our  heroine's  cha- 
racter from  developing  itself,  in  habits  of  melancholy 
musing;  and,  on  this  occasion,  she  sought  to  beguile 
the  weariness  of  expectation  by  active  employment. 
She  directed  the  internal  arrangements  of  the  castle, 
administered  to  the  necessities  of  the  poorer  vassals, 
and  when  the  weather  permitted,  she  explored  the  en^ 
virons.  Her  evenings  were  spent  at  the  library  fire- 
side, with  the  count  and  his  venerable  chaplain;  when 
the  little  events  of  her  calm,  but  active  days,  often 
afforded  subjects  of  conversation. 

One  day  that  she  was  superintending  the  arrange- 
ment of  some  old  paintings  in  a  gallery  leading  to  her 
apartments,  her  attention  was  suddenly  arrested  by 
one  of  them,  representing  the  interior  of  a  prison. 
Diminishing  arches  faded  into  obscurity  in  the  back- 
ground, whilst  light  streamed  down,  from  a  high-grated 
window,  upon  the  figure  of  a  warrior,  who  sat,  heavi- 
ly chained,  upon  a  heap  of  straws  The  captive's  head, 
which  from  the  dark  curling  locks,  mj'ght  be  supposed 
that  of  a  young  man,  rested  upon  the  hands  in  such  a 
position  as  to  conceal  t'he  features.     Yet  the  attitude  of 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  if 

dejection,  and  the  skilful  distribution  of  light  and  shade, 
produced  a  striking  picture  ;  at  least,  so  it  seemed  to 
Albertine,  who  examined  it  long  and  minutely  ;  and 
every  time  she  had  occasion  to  pass  through  the  gal- 
lery, she  stopped  to  form  fresh  conjectures  concerning 
the  history  of  the  prisoner.  In  the  evening,  she  ap- 
plied to  her  uncle  for  information  ;  but  he  only  re- 
membered to  have  heard  from  his  great  aunt,  Walbur- 
ga  (a  walking  chronicle  of  the  house  of  Darmstein), 
that  the  picture  in  question  represented  one  of  their 
ancestors,  who  was  persecuted  by  King  Sigismond, 
for  having  embraced  the  heretical  doctrines  of  John 
Huss. 

<«  Ah!  those  were  lamentable  times!  almost  as  wick- 
ed as  our  own!"  groaned  the  chaplain.  The  count  as- 
sented to  the  observation  ;  and  the  two  gentlemen  fell 
into  a  long,  and  somewhat  prosy  discourse,  respecting 
the  unhappy  events  of  the  late  war,  and  its  probable 
consequences  to  the  third  and  fourth  generations.  The 
chaplain  expatiated  upon  the  licentiousness  of  the  peo- 
ple, who,  urged  by  their  necessities,  and  unrestrained 
by  religious  principle,  abandoned  themselves  to  all 
manner  of  atrocities.  He  related  frightful  stories  of 
the  bands  of  freebooters  and  outlaws,  who  occupied  the 
forests  and  dismantled  fortresses,  spreading  terror  and 
devastation  through  the  country.  These  narrations 
reminded  the  count  of  some  similar  and  remarkable 
facts  connected  with  the  earlier  period  of  the  war. 

<^  It  was  then,"  said  he,  "  that  one  of  my  best 
friends  was  bereaved  of  his  only  son,  the  sole  heir 
of  vast  possessions,  and  the  last  scion  of  one  of  the 
noblest  houses  of  Germany.  You  remember  Count 
Leopold  Laneskv,  who  went  with  me  to  the  universi- 
ty ?" 

'«  Lanesky  !"  repeated  Albertine,  who  had  hitherto 
appeared  absorbed  in  the  selection  of  colours  for  her 
embroidery. 

<'Yes,"  continued  her  uncle,  now  addressing  himself 
to  her.  «*  Leopold  was  my  earliest  friend,  and  was  to 
have  married  your  mother:  butsome  family  circumstan- 
ces occurred  to  break  off  the  match,  and  he  retired  to  his 


10  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

estates  in  Silesia.  His  only  consolation  in  an  ill-as- 
sorted union,  contracted  in  obedience  to  the  commands 
of  an  arbitrary  father,  was  a  son,  who  was  about 
five  years  old,  when  the  army  of  the  ferocious  Mans- 
field retreated  fighting  through  Silesia.  His  domains 
were  laid  waste,  his  castle  pillaged  and  set  on  fire. 
Many  of  the  inmates  were  made  prisoners,  some  put  to 
the  sword,  and  others  burnt,  either  in  the  attempt  to 
save  their  property,  or  to  hide  themselves  from  the  ene- 
my. The  child  was  lost  ;  but  from  the  circumstances 
of  the  scorched  remains  of  its  attendant  being  found 
alone,  hopes  were  long  entertained  that  the  boy  might 
have  been  carried  off,  and  would  one  day  reappear. 
Twenty  years  having  passed  in  fruitless  researches,  my 
poor  friend  is  at  length  convinced  that  his  child  must 
have  perished  in  the  flames." 

The  count  ceased — and  Albertine,  who  had  listened 
to  him  with  interest,  now  asked  whether  Adrian  was 
not  the  name  of  the  lost  child  ?  He  replied  in  the  af- 
firmative. 

''  I  well  remember  having  heard  my  mother  speak 
of  a  marriage  that  had  been  projected  between  her 
friend's  son  and  me." 

"True,"  said  the  count.  "  It  was  the  wish  of  my 
late  sister,  as  well  as  of  Count  Lanesky,  that  their  at- 
tachment should  be  revived  in  their  children.  But 
Heaven  had  decreed  that  our  families  should  never  be 
united,  for  you  were  but  a  few  months  old,  when 
the  event  I  have  just  related,  frustrated  their  schemes, 
and  deprived  you  of  your  destined  husband." 

''  But  am  I  not  richly  compensated,  dear  uncle?" 
said  Albertine,  affectionately  kissing  her  uncle's  hand. 

*<  Yes,"  returned  he  with  emotion — *^yes!  my 
Frederick  is  a  noble  youth,  and  will  surely  render  you 
as  happy  as  you  deserve." 

''  Amen  !"  ejaculated  the  pious  chaplain,  with  uplift- 
ed hands  and  eyes. 

In  such  discourse  they  whiled  away  the  long  autumn 
evenings.  But  though  Albertine  communicated  much, 
and  indeed  most  of  the  incidents  that  occurred  in  the 


OP    GERMAN    LTPE.  11 

day,  yet  there  was  one,  which  she  thou«ght  fit  to  keep 
to  herself.     It  was  this  : 

In  one  of  her  walks,  having  been  induced  by  the 
unusual  fineness  of  the  day,  to  stray  farther  than  was 
prudent,  she  found  herself  near  the  ruins  of  a  small 
chapel  or  hermitage«  It  stood  concealed  from  distant 
view  by  several  tall  trees,  intermixed  with  tangled 
underwood,  on  the  highest  elevation  of  the  clifi'; 
beneath  which  the  Moldau  foamed  through  a  narrow 
gorge,  dashing  furiously  over  huge  masses  of  granite 
rock,  or  forming  deep  eddying  pools  between  them. 
On  the  opposite  bank,  flashing  and  sparkling  amidst 
the  dark  pines,  was  a  cascade,  at  the  foot  of  which,  a 
little  boy  stood,  amusing  himself  by  throwing  bits  of 
wood  into  the  eddy,  formed  by  the  fall  of  its  waters 
into  the  river — and  watching  their  progress  as  they 
tossed,  whirled,  and  drifted  away  with  the  stream. 
Albertine  was  pleased  with  the  wild  beauty  of  the 
scene,  and  had  just  seated  herself  on  a  fragment  of  the 
ruin — whilst  her  attendant  carried  a  message  to  the 
cottage  of  one  of  the  count's  poor  pensioners,  not  far 
from  thence — when  she  was  startled  by  the  sudden 
clatter  of  loose  stones  and  earth  falling  near  her,  fol- 
lowed by  the  apparition  of  a  man,  rapidly  descending 
by  the  aid  of  projecting  crags  and  bushes,  to  the  mar- 
gin of  the  river.  She  retreated  a  little,  in  order  to 
observe  the  stranger's  motions  unseen.  His  face  was 
turned  from  her.  For  a  moment  he  stood  looking  on 
every  side  with  an  air  of  caution — then  threw  aside 
his  cloak,  and  discovered  a  close  dress  of  dark  green, 
devoid  of  all  ornament  save  a  black  leathern  belt, 
studded  with  broad  steel  knobs,  and  a  baldrick  of  the 
same.  Drawing  his  sword  from  its  iron  scabbard,  he 
knelt  down  by  the  water's  edge  to  wash  the  blade, 
which  was  smeared  with  blood.  Albertine  shuddered 
at  the  sight,  for  it  recalled  the  chaplain's  stories  of 
banditti.  His  dress  too,  though  military,  being  un- 
like any  uniform  she  had  ever  seen,  rather  tended  to 
confirm  her  suspicions  ;  which  were,  however,  not  un- 
mixed with  admiration  for  his  tall,  commanding,  and 
yet  graceful  form. 


12  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

Presently,  a  loud  scream  from  the  child,  who  had 
lost  his  footing,  and  fallen  into  the  river,  disturbed  the 
stranger's  proceedings.  He  looked  round,  with  sur- 
prise, on  hearing,  as  it  were,  the  echo  of  the  scream 
from  Albertine.  He  seemed  to  hesitate — then,  flinging 
down  the  sword,  he  plunged  in — seized  the  child's 
floating  garments — brought  it  to  shore,  unhurt — and 
set  it  gently  down  upon  the  bank.  A  woman  was  seen 
descending  the  path  by  which  the  boy  must  have 
reached  the  river,  probably  in  search  of  him  ;  the  stran- 
ger cast  another  anxious  look  around,  and  vanished 
behind  a  projecting  angle  of  the  rock. 

Albertine  was  bewildered  by  what  she  had  witnessed. 
The  unfavourable  conjectures  suggested  by  the  bloody 
sword,  were  strengthened  by  the  stranger's  obvious 
reluctance  to  be  seen  ;  and  yet,  his  humane  and  intrepid 
conduct  argued,  still  more  strongly  than  his  noble  mien, 
against  the  notion  of  his  belonging  to  a  band  of  robbers. 
Whatever  he  might  be  in  reality,  it  was  evident 
that  he  wished  for  concealment  ;  and  she  resolved  to 
keep  his  secret  faithfully.  Her  morning's  adventure, 
therefore,  was  never  mentioned  at  the  castle  ;  but  in 
solitude,  she  delighted  to  retrace  the  momentary  scene, 
and  to  imagine  romantic  solutions  for  its  mysterious 
incidents. 

Meanwhile,  every  day  brought  reports  of  fresh  out- 
rages, perpetrated  by  a  banditti,  who  were  every  where 
destroying  the  peace  of  the  country.  The  most  won- 
derful of  these  tales  were  related  of  a  gang,  whose 
leader  was  distinguished  by  the  appellation  of  Black 
Fritz.  Some  believed  him  to  be  one  of  Mansfield's 
freebooters  :  some  said  he  was  a  swarthy  Italian  deser- 
ter from  the  Cardinal  Infant's  army  ;  and  others  asser- 
ted that  he  was  a  Swedish  ofiicer,  whose  regiment 
having  been  disbanded  at  the  peace,  distress  and  des- 
peration iiad  driven  him  to  join  a  band  of  adventurers, 
leagued  together  for  the  object  of  revenging  on  the 
more  wealthy  and  prosperous  the  injustice  of  fortune 
towards  themselves. 

The  deeds  ascribed  to  Black  Fritz  and  his  men  were 
of  the  most  eccentric  and  audacious  character.  Those 
in  which  he  himself  played  the  principal  part,   were 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  13 

distinguished  by  a  wild  generosity  and  recklessness  of 
danger,  combined,  however,  with  great  sagacity  and 
military  skill.  Albertine  never  heard  such  narrations 
without  thinking  of  the  mysterious  stranger  of  the  Mol- 
dau.  The  bloody  sword — the  singular  dress — and  his 
precipitate  retreat, — all  seemed  to  indicate  one  of  the 
banditti,  if  not  their  leader.  Black  Fritz  himself ;  and 
she  regretted  more  and  more,  not  having  had  a  distinct 
view  of  his  features.  She  listened  with  a  lively  interest 
to  all  the  details  concerning  this  renowned  robber  ;  and, 
while  her  principles  condemned  his  lawless  life,  she 
could  not  suppress  feelings  of  admiration  and  pity  for  the 
perverted  being,  whose  high  natural  gifts  might,  under 
more  favourable  circumstances,  have  rendered  him  an  or- 
nament to  the  country  of  which  he  was  now  the  scourge. 

Traces  of  these  depredators  began  to  appear  in  the 
vicinity  of  Darmstein,  and  the  count  was  debating  on  the 
expediency  of  adopting  some  precautionary  measures, 
when  a  letter  from  Frederick  positively  announced  his 
arrival  the  following  week.  Owing  to  the  dangerous 
state  of  the  Bohemian  roads,  and  to  the  fame  of  Black 
Fritz's  exploits,  he  had  regulated  his  journey  so  as  only 
to  travel  by  daylight,  and  accompanied  by  a  military  es- 
cort. This  arrangement  afforded  great  satisfaction  to  his 
father,  who,  though  fearless  for  himself,  was  apprehen- 
sive of  every  shadow  of  danger  that  might  threaten  his 
darling  son. 

Albertine  was  overjoyed  at  this  near  prospect  of  see- 
ing her  cousin  ;  and  in  order  to  enjoy  his  society  with- 
out interruption,  she  determined,  before  became,  to  pay 
a  long-promised  visit  to  a  lady  who  lived  about  twenty 
miles  off.  She  accordingly  set  out  early  the  next  morn- 
ing, attended  by  her  waiting-woman  and  several  armed 
domestics  ;  taking,  by  her  uncle's  direction,  the  upper 
road  across  the  mountain,  as  safer,  though  not  so  good 
as  that  through  the  forest. 

She  arrived  safely  at  her  friend's,  notwithstanding  the 
wretched  condition  of  the  road,  long  neglected,  and  now 
almost  impassable  from  the  heavy  autumnal  rains.  But 
on  her  return,  when  about  halfway  up  the  mountain,  the 
carriage  broke  down.  The  accident  might  have  proved 
Vol.  II.— -B 


14  LIGHTS    AND  SHADOWS 

fatal,  as  the  road  lay  along  the  edge  of  a  deep  ravine, 
and  the  parapet  had  been  in  many  places  torn  away  by 
the  torrents.  The  screams  of  the  waiting-maid,  and  the 
clamorous  confusion  of  the  servants,  attracted  the  notice 
of  a  man  who  was  descending  the  mountain  by  a  foot- 
path :  he  quickened  his  pace,  and  advanced  to  their  re- 
lief. As  soon  as  he  pulled  open  the  carriage-door,  the 
terrified  abigail  threw  herself  into  his  arms  :  he  carried 
her  a  few  yards  up  the  bank,  where  some  hewn  trees 
afforded  a  dry  seat  ;  and  then  returned  to  Albertine, 
who,  less  easily  alarmed,  had  already  extricated  herself. 
He  assisted  her  to  ascend  the  slippery  bank,  on  which 
he  had  deposited  her  attendant,  and  went  to  see  what 
could  be  done  with  the  prostrate  vehicle.  By  his  di- 
rections and  personal  exertions  it  was  shortly  in  a  con- 
dition to  be  drawn  to  a  forge,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
distant  ;  where  workmen,  he  said,  would  be  found  to 
repair  it.  He  proposed  that  the  lady  and  her  companion 
should  adjourn  thither  also,  instead  of  waiting  in  the 
open  road.  They  accordingly  set  forward  together,  the 
carriage  slowly  following. 

Albertine  had  been  forcibly  struck  by  her  deliverer's 
appearance,  which  she  had  full  leisure  to  observe.  His 
plain  and  rather  coarse  attire,  betokening  a  man  of  the 
middle  class,  was  contrasted  with  the  dignified  but 
stern  expression  of  his  regular  features,  as  well  as  with 
the  tone  of  habitual  command  with  wliich  he  directed 
the  domestics,  and  with  his  courteous,  easy,  yet  res- 
pectful manner  towards  herself  As  he  walked  by  her 
side  to  the  forge,  his  language  displayed  a  degree  of 
cultivation  equally  foreign  to  his  apparent  rank  in  life. 
In  the  course  of  their  conversation,  he  asked  how  she 
came  to  have  taken  this  road  in  preference  to  the  lower 
one,  which  was  so  much  better  ?  Albertine  answered, 
that  she  had  only  done  so  in  compliance  with  her 
uncle's  wishes,  the  forest  being  considered  unsafe. 

<*And  you,  lady,  did  you  not  share  his  apprehen- 
sions?" 

'<  No,"  she  replied,  "  they  say  that  Black  Fritz  knows 
every  thing  :  he  must,  therefore,  be  aware  that  a  young 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  15 

lady,  on  her  way  to  visit  a  friend  for  a  day  or  two,  is  not 
likely  to  carry  with  her  treasure  sufficient  to  tempt  him." 

"But,"  said  the  man,  "Black  Fritz  is  not  only 
rapacious  ;   he  is  also  insolent  and  cruel." 

'^Nay,  pardon  me,  sir;  I  cannot  believe  that  he 
or  any  other  man  would  commit  an  atrocious  crime 
without  some  powerful  inducement." 

*<Then,  lady,  you  entertain  a  better  opinion  of  him 
than  the  rest  of  the  world.  May  I  ask  upon  what 
ground  it  is  formed  ?'' 

"  It  may  seem  strange,"  replied  she,  construing  into 
disapproval  both  the  question  and  the  equivocal  smile 
which  accompanied  it,  ''  and  perhaps  the  grounds  of  my 
opinion  are  too  slight  to  be  declared,  but  I  could  never 
bring  myself  to  credit  all  the  ill  that  is  reported  of  him." 

Her  auditor's  eyes  were  bent  on  the  ground,  as  in 
deep  meditation.  There  was  a  moment's  pause  ere 
he  turned  to  Albertine,  and  said,  «*  Can  it  be  possible 
that  you  feel  thus  gently  towards  the  fierce  outlaw, 
whose  very  name  is  the  terror  of  Bohemia  ?" 

<<  I  speak  as  I  think,"  said  Albertine,  ^<butl  per- 
ceive that  we  do  not  agree.  You  share  the  prejudices 
of  the  majority  with  regard  to  him."  In  justification 
of  her  own  sentiments,  she  stated  several  instances 
which  she  had  heard  of  the  bandit's  humane  and  gene- 
rous— and  even  equitable  conduct. 

The  stranger  expressed  very  opposite  opinions,  and 
appeared  well  acquainted  with  the  origin  of  the  bri- 
gand. Amongst  the  various  particulars  he  mentioned, 
was  the  fact  of  Black  Fritz  having  served  with  dis- 
tinction in  the  Swedish  army  ;  but  that,  notwithstand- 
ing, he  had  been  ungratefully  turned  adrift  at  the 
peace,  when  it  seemed  that  resentment  and  distress 
had  driven  him  to  his  present  desperate  course  of  life. 

"I  cannot  venture  to  contradict  one  who  seems  so 
well  informed,"  said  Albertine,  ''  but  yet,  I  should 
unwillingly  relinquish  my  more  favourable  views  of 
the  unhappy  man's  character." 

One,  more  practised  than  Albertine  in  reading  the 
language  of  the  heart  upon  the  human  countenance, 
would  have  been  struck  by  the  expression  that  dark- 


16  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

ened   the  stranger's  brow,  as   he  replied  with  a  tone 
of  mournful  earnestness  : 

"Were  there  more  in  the  world,  who  could  feel 
and  judge  as  generously  as  you  do,  lady — perhaps — 
perhaps,  the  wretched  object  of  your  unmerited  sym- 
pathy had  not  fallen  so  low!" 

^'  Then  we  do  not  differ  so  widely  after  all,"  said 
she,  <<and  you  will  not  condemn  me  now  for  acknow- 
ledging that  I  have  often  prayed,  that  God  would 
enlighten  the  understanding  of  this  erring  man,  and 
turn  him  from  his  career  of  peril  and  blood!" 

The  stranger's  emotion  increased  :  he  pressed  his 
hand  upon  his  eyes,  and  walked  on  without  speaking. 
His  silence  struck  Albertine  with  a  feeling  of  surprise 
and  even  confusion,  at  having  thus  unguardedly  com- 
municated her  sentiments  to  an  utter  stranger.  But  there 
was  something  in  his  look  and  manner,  which  not 
only  invited,  but  commanded  openness. 

They  had  by  this  time  reached  a  long  low  building  of 
rough  stone  ;  and  the  stranger  ran  forward  into  a  part 
of  it,  which  presented  the  appearance  of  a  respectable 
dwelling-house,  while  the  remainder  conveyed  the  idea 
of  a  manufactory.  A  number  of  dark  looking  men, 
with  bare  arms,  and  leather  aprons,  came  out  almost 
immediately,  bringing  with  them  the  tools  necessary 
for  repairing  the  carriage,  and  set  to  work  without  taking 
any  notice  of  Albertine  or  her  attendants.  A  consider- 
able time  elapsed,  and  as  her  conductor  was  still  absent, 
she  began  to  feel  anxious.  The  wild  aspect  of  the  work- 
men deterred  her,  at  first,  from  questioning  them  ;  at 
length,  however,  she  determined  to  address  the  least 
ill-looking  of  the  set,  and  learned  from  him,  that  their 
employer  was  an  iron-founder  of  Budweis.  This  in- 
formation set  her  mind  at  ease,  and  she  found  amuse- 
ment in  observing  the  skilful  and  expeditious  manner 
in  which  the  smiths  seemed  to  perform  their  task. 
At  last,  the  stranger  rejoined  her  ;  and  apologising  for 
having  suflfered  her  to  wait  so  long,  invited  her  to  enter 
the  house  and  accept  some  refreshment.  Albertine 
consented,  and,  accompanied  by  her  female  attendant, 
followed  him  to  a  well-furnished  room,  where  an  elderly 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  17 

woman  of  decent  exterior,  who  was  engaged  in  arrang- 
ing the  repast,  received  her  respectfully,  and  then 
retired  to  a  spinning-wheel  at  the  window.  The  man- 
ner in  which  the  stranger  acquitted  himself  of  the  hon- 
ours of  his  dwelling,  and  the  tone  of  his  conversation, 
afforded  sufficient  proof  that  he  was  not  unused  to  cul- 
tivated society  ;  and  her  interest  as  well  as  curiosity 
augmented  with  every  change  of  his  singularly  dark, 
but  handsome  countenance,  and  with  every  modulation 
of  a  voice  deep  and  manly,  yet  touchingly  sweet. 

Three  hours  had  thus  glided  away  unmarked,  when 
a  man  entered,  and  informed  them,  that  the  repairs  of 
the  carriage  were  completed.  At  this  unwelcome  in- 
telligence, the  stranger  started  from  his  seat,  his  eyes 
fiercely  gleaming  upon  the  intruder.  Instantly  per- 
ceiving the  effect  of  his  impetuous  movement  on  Alber- 
tine's  changing  colour,  he  restrained  himself — and, 
with  an  air  of  profound  respect,  offered  to  conduct  her 
to  her  carriage.  At  the  door  of  the  house  he  stopped — 
looked  embarrassed — and  after  a  hesitation,  which  man- 
ifested internal  conflict — asked  whether  he  might  be 
permitted  to  say  a  few  words  to  her  in  private.  Al- 
bertine  desired  her  attendant  to  pass  on  to  the  carriage, 
and  returned  with  her  host  to  the  room  where  she  had 
been  entertained. 

''  You  spoke  to  me  of  Black  Fritz,  lady — though  you 
fear  not  him — you  might  reasonably  apprehend  danger 
from  some  of  his  people.  I  know  that  he  has  his  mo- 
tives for  respecting  my  wishes.  Therefore  allow  me  to 
entreat  your  acceptance  of  this  ring.  Should  you  ever 
be  exposed  to  danger  from  any  of  his  band — show  it, 
and  you  will  be  suffered  to  pass  without  further  molesta- 
tion." 

Albertine  stood  as  if  petrified.  A  thought  flashed 
through  her  brain,  which  deprived  her  of  all  power  of 
utterance.  The  dark  form  which  had  excited  her  curi- 
osity on  the  banks  of  the  Moldau,  seemed  to  stand  be- 
fore her.  An  icy  pang,  for  a  moment,  paralyzed  her  fa- 
culties— and  she  could  neither  speak  nor  stretch  forth 
her  hand  to  take  the  proffered  ring.  It  was  an  engraved 
stone,  in  a  rich,  but  peculiar  setting. 

VOL.  II — B  2 


18  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

'*!  thank  you,"  she  said  at  length,  in  a  voice  which 
betrayed  the  excess  of  her  agitation.  «'  I  thank  you — 
I  can  never  forget  your  kindness.  Your  ring  shall  be 
restored  when  I  no  longer  need  its  protection.  But  tell 
me  to  whom,  and  where." 

A  burning  flush  passed  over  the  stranger's  face,  as 
with  strong  and  uncontrollable  emotion  he  interrupted 
her.  "  Then,  is  my  gift  scorned,  because  the  giver  is 
unknown  ?  The  ring  is  dear — most  dear  to  me.  No 
matter  why.  But  1  give  it  to  save  you  from  danger — 
that  it  might  remain  with  you.    And  yet — and  yet ." 

He  stopped  as  if  a  sudden  sense  of  propriety  had 
checked  the  further  expression  of  his  exasperated  feel- 
ings. Albertine's  cheeks  were  pale,  and  her  lips  trem- 
bled as  she  uttered  some  inarticulate  words.  Scarce 
knowing  what  she  did,  she  thrust  the  ring  into  the  folds 
of  her  garment,  at  the  same  time  moving  towards  the 
door.  Her  mysterious  host  followed  in  gloomy  silence, 
and  assisted  her  into  the  carriage.  The  slight,  perhaps 
unconscious,  pressure  of  his  hand,  was  as  unconscious- 
ly returned.  Their  eyes  met  once  more  as  the  door 
closed,  and  the  winding  of  the  road  soon  hid  her  from 
his  sight. 

Albertine  threw  herself  back  in  the  carriage,  and 
drawing  her  veil  closely  over  her  face,  journeyed  home, 
lost  in  a  bewildered  maze  of  sensations.  She  could  not 
disguise  from  herself  the  impression  that  this  adventure 
had  left  upon  her  mind.  But  what  seemed  most  in- 
comprehensible to  her  was,  the  power  which  the 
stranger's  feelings  exercised  over  hers,  and  the  degree 
to  which  she  felt  compelled  to  manifest  confidence  and 
kindness  towards  the  acquaintance  of  a  moment  ;  and 
towards  one,  too,  who  had  appeared  under  such  mys- 
terious, not  to  say  suspicious  circumstances  :  for  she  saw 
nothing  to  verify  the  smith's  assertion  of  his  master 
being  an  iron-founder  of  Budweis. 

On  arriving  at  the  outward  gate  of  the  castle,  Alber- 
tine was  met  by  Count  Darmstein,  who  was  impatiently 
walking  backwards  and  forwards,  looking  for  her  return, 
that  he  might  communicate  the  joyful  news,  that  his 
son's  courier  was  arrived,  and  that  Frederick  might  be 


OP    GERMAN    LIFE.  19 

expected  every  moment.  This  was  no  more  than  she 
might  have  been  prepared  for — no  more  than  would 
have  given  her  delight  a  few  hours  before  ;  yet,  the 
words  now  fell  like  a  death-toll  upon  her  ear.  While 
the  events  of  the  day  had  changed  the  nature  of  her 
feelings  they  had  also  effaced  Frederick  from  her 
thoughts.  She  could  not  take  part  in  her  uncle's  joy — 
she  could  not  even  answer  his  affectionate  greeting  with 
a  look  of  kindness.  Fatigue  and  terror  (for  the  waiting- 
maid  was  already  giving  an  exaggerated  account  of  their 
accident  on  the  mountain)  afforded  a  pretext  for  im- 
mediately retiring  to  her  apartment,  where  she  flung 
herself  on  a  couch  and  yielded  to  a  passionate  overflow 
of  feeling.  A  multitude  of  confused  and  conflicting 
thoughts,  images,  and  emotions,  overpowered  her  reason. 
She  was  displeased  with  herself — with  Frederick's  ar- 
rival— with  her  interest  for  the  stranger  ;  displeased,  in 
short,  with  the  whole  world  ! 

This  was  the  cruel  state  of  our  heroine's  mind,  when 
a  sudden  uproar  in  the  castle,  doors  clapping,  voices  cal- 
ling, and  servants  running  to  and  fro,  informed  her  that 
Count  Frederick  was  come.  Her  concern  now  was  to 
collect  her  scattered  senses,  and  prepare  to  receive  him. 
She  rose  from  the  couch,  but  her  limbs  refused  to  sup- 
port her,  and  she  sunk  down  again.  **0h  God  !  what 
ails  me  ?  what  am  I  to  do  ?"  She  clasped  her  hands  in 
agony,  then  raising  them  to  Heaven  with  a  wild  ges- 
ture of  despair,  the  stranger's  parting  gift  fell  at  her 
feet.  She  shrunk  back,  and  covered  her  eyes  from  the 
glittering  trinket,  as  from  some  horrid  spectre.  But 
hearing  footsteps  in  the  gallery  leading  to  her  chamber, 
she  snatched  up  the  ring,  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  and  hur- 
ried it  again  into  her  bosom. 

Scarce  had  she  done  so,  when  the  door  of  the  ante- 
room opened,  and  Albertine's  heart  sunk  within  her, 
on  hearing  a  strange  voice  in  conversation  with  her 
uncle's.  He  entered  with  his  arm  round  the  shoulders 
of  a  young  man,  in  whose  improved  and  elegant  ex- 
terior, her  youthful  playmate  could  scarcely  be  recog- 
nized. 


20  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

^^  Here  is  my  son!  your  Frederick  and  mine,  dear 
Albertiiie  ;"  exclaimed  the  Count  exultingly. 

'<  My  lovely  bride!'^  softly  murmured  the  young 
man,  advancing  gracefully  to  embrace  her.  But  Alber- 
tine's  feelings  had  been  already  overstrained  :  they 
could  not  bear  farther  tension.  She  bent  forwards,  and 
fell  lifeless  into  his  extended  arms. 

On  recovering,  she  found  herself  supported  by  her 
uncle,  her  woman  administering  the  necessary  restora- 
tives, and  Frederick  kneeling  by  her  side,  holding  her 
hands  in  his.  She  sat  up,  gazed  wildly  around,  as  if  at 
a  loss  to  distinguish  whether  her  returning  ideas  were 
of  real  or  unreal  things  ;  till  she  was  at  length  relieved 
by  a  violent  gush  of  tears. 

*<  Dearest  Albertine  !"  said  Frederick,  tenderly  kis- 
sing her  cold  unresisting  hand,  "forgive  my  inconsid- 
erate haste.  Could  I  have  foreseen  its  effects,  I  would 
have  controlled  my  impatience,  and  requested  my 
father  to  prepare  you  for  my  appearance  in  your  apart- 
ment.^' 

"But  who  could  have  foreseen  such  agitation  at  an 
event  so  long  expected  ?"  said  the  old  Count. 

"Do  not  distress  yourself,  dear  uncle,  nor  you,  Fre- 
derick :  neither  is  to  blame  for  a  weakness,  which  may 
be  attributed  to  the  fatigue  of  my  morning  journey.  It 
is  nothing,  I  am  quite  well  now.'' 

She  arose,  and,  supported  by  the  two  gentlemen,  ac- 
companied them  to  the  saloon  ;  where  she  strove  to  ex- 
hibit the  kind  feelings  and  attention  due  to  the  object 
of  her  childish  love,  and  the  future  partner  of  her  weal 
and  woe.  The  effort  wi.j  great ;  but,  in  the  end,  suc- 
cessful. She  questioned  him  about  their  friends  at 
Vienna,  about  his  travels,  and  drew  him  into  various  de- 
tails of  what  he  had  seen  and  done  ;  during  which  her 
agitation  gradually  subsided. 

From  this  day  it  was  received  as  an  indubitable  fact 
in  the  castle  and  its  neighbourhood,  that  the  rich  and 
beautiful  young  baroness  was  overhead  and  ears  in  love 
with  her  future  lord  and  master,  Count  Frederick  ;  and 
the  young  man  seemed  to  justify  so  flattering  a  prefer- 
ence by  the  most  assiduous  attentions,  and  unwearied 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  21 

endeavours  to  anticipate  her  wishes,  and  conform  to  her 
tastes.  He  was  ingenious  as  well  as  accomplished  ; 
and  besides  his  collection  of  paintings,  violins,  and  vio- 
loncellos, he  had  brought  with  him  whole  wagon- 
loads  of  materials  and  implements  of  every  descrip- 
tion. Albertine  could  not  desire  or  even  name  any 
article  of  furniture,  or  knick-knackery  for  work-table, 
that  it  did  not,  in  due  time,  make  its  appearance  in  her 
apartment.  He  made,  mended,  and  invented  ;  hourly 
presenting  her  with  some  new  proof  of  his  dexterity 
and  devotion.  He  consulted  her  taste  in  the  embel- 
lishments of  the  castle,  the  repairs  of  which  he  con- 
ducted with  architectural  skill.  Some  of  the  rooms  he 
adorned  with  paintings  of  his  own  hand,  others  he  de- 
corated in  fresco,  after  the  fashion  of  Italy.  He  show- 
ed himself  invariably  amiable  and  complaisant;  full  of 
talents  and  information. 

Albertine  saw  and  acknowledged  all  this,  and  her 
resolutions  to  fulfil  her  engagement  remained  unshaken. 
But  in  her  hours  of  solitude,  or  after  having  been  annoy- 
ed by  some  trait  of  vanity  or  effeminacy  in  her  cousin's 
character,  she  could  not  entirely  subdue  the  rebellious 
feelings  which  called  up  the  image  of  a  far  different  be- 
ing, and  betrayed  her  into  comparisons  dangerous  to 
her  future  tranquillity. 

Whilst  Frederick  thus  occupied  his  hours,  and  whilst 
his  bride  was  dutifully  striving  to  revive  her  former 
attachment  for  him,  and  to  look  forward  without  pain  to 
the  more  solemn  bond  which,  it  was  now  decided, 
should  unite  their  fates  early  in  the  spring  ;  each  coming 
guest,  each  inhabitant  of  the  castle  or  the  village,  who 
resorted  to  the  neighbouring  towns,  brought  back  ac- 
counts of  new  outrages  committed  b}^  Black  Fritz  and 
his  gang.  They  related  many  hairbrained  and  hazard- 
ous enterprises,  in  which  the  bold  robber  recklessly 
risked  his  life  and  freedom,  for  the  sake  of  eliecting 
some  mad  boast  of  his  own,  or  of  chastising  acts  of  oppres- 
sion exercised  by  the  rich  upon  their  poor  dependants. 

Since  her  adventure  on  the  mountain,  Albertine's 
heart  had  always  throbbed  at  the  mention  of  Black  Fritz's 
name.     Although  the  noble  armorial  bearings  engraved 


22  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

on  the  ring  given  to  her  by  her  mysterious  protector, 
might  have  suggested  more  favourable  conjectures  re- 
specting his  real  condition,  still,  however,  they  proved 
nothing  ;  and,  in  spite  of  the  horror  attached  to  such  a 
notion,  she  not  only  found  it  impossible  to  divest  herself 
of  the  persuasion  that  she  had  approached  this  terrible 
outlaw  ;  but  she  had  dwelt  involuntarily  and  with  inex- 
plicable pleasure  on  the  idea  of  having  been,  transiently, 
the  object  of  his  kindness.  The  doubt  and  mystery 
which  involved  her  connection  with  her  host  of  the 
mountain,  only  contributed  to  recall  him  more  frequent- 
ly to  her  thoughts  ;  and  every  time,  unconsciously,  with 
increasing  interest. 

But  there  were  other  circumstances  besides  these  re- 
ports, which  caused  his  image  to  recur  to  her  imagina- 
tion. For  some  time  past,  she  felt  the  conviction  of 
being  encompassed  by  an  invisible  power.  Evidence 
of  a  secret  agency  presented  itself  daily  to  her  senses. 
Slightly  expressed  wishes  were  gratified,  household 
anxieties  removed  by  invisible  means,  whatever  was 
sent  for  to  the  capital,  either  for  the  use  or  ornament 
of  the  castle,  passed  through  the  most  dangerous  parts 
of  the  country  unmolested.  Perfect  tranquillity  reigned 
for  twenty  miles  round  Darmstein,  and  the  vassals  were 
indemnified — they  knew  not  how — for  the  various  de- 
predations they  had  formerly  suffered.  None  of  these 
facts  came  to  her  knowledge  without  inflicting  a  pang, 
which  deepened  the  feelings  in  which  her  sensitiveaess 
originated. 

She  had  once  said,  jestingly,  at  table,  that  she 
wished  for  a  parrot,  like  one  belonging  to  a  friend  at 
Vienna,  to  entertain  her  during  the  hours  which  her 
uncle's  affairs,  and  Frederick's  amateur  pursuits  con- 
demned her  to  pass  in  solitude.  The  wish  had  been 
long  forgotten,  as  well  as  the  occasion  of  it,  when  she 
was  awakened  one  morning,  by  a  strange  noise  at  her 
window.  She  arose,  and  on  opening  the  casement, 
found  a  beautiful  parrot  suspended,  in  a  splendid  cage, 
by  a  cord,  to  one  of  the  stanchions.  The  chamber  was 
situated  in  the  second  story  of  the  castle,  on  the  side 
which  was  deemed  inaccessible  from  without ;  the  rock 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE. 


23 


on  which  it  was  built  rising  perpendicularly  to  a  consi- 
derable height  above  the  river.  Albertine,  therefore, 
guessed  that  it  was  a  galanterie^oi  her  cousin's,  as  the 
window  of  the  adjoining  room  was  so  placed,  that  hers 
might  be  reached  from  it  without  much  difficulty.  The 
bird  was  taken  in,  and  admired  again  and  again.  As 
soon  as  she  was  dressed,  she  descended  to  thank  Freder- 
ick, and  display  her  acquisition  to  her  uncle.  Both  gen- 
tlemen expressed  unfeigned  astonishment,  and  the  former 
proved,  satisfactorily,  that  he  could  not  possibly  have 
been  in  that  part  of  the  castle  since  the  preceding  morn- 
ing. All  the  servants  were  examined,  but  no  one  could 
throw  any  light  upon  the  mystery. 

Meanwhile,  Albertine  enjoyed  the  company  of  her 
parrot,  though  certain  suspicions  respecting  the  mode 
by  which  it  had  been  conveyed  to  her,  sometimes 
crossed  her  mind,  filling  it  with  dread.  Happening  to 
be  alone  in  her  chamber  reading,  she  was  surprised  by 
a  voice  exclaiming  with  a  sigh,  "Adrian!  ah  poor 
Adrian!"  She  dropped  the  book,  and  listened.  It 
was  the  bird  who  spoke.  She  approached  the  cage, 
and  asked — as  if  the  parrot  could  understand  her  ques- 
tion— who  had  taught  it  that  name  ?  But  the  answer 
was  still  '^Adrian — ah  !  poor  Adrian!" 

Albertine,  to  whom  the  name  recalled  her  mother, 
and  the  son  of  her  mother's  friend — her  first  betrothed 
— experienced  a  strange  sensation  of  fear.  It  was  as 
if  she  was  surrounded  by  spirits  of  the  departed. 
However,  the  superstitious  fancy  soon  passed  away,  and 
she  stood  by,  while  the  bird  incessantly  repeated  its 
lamentable  '^  Ah!  poor  Adrian!"  till  she  became  accus- 
tomed to  the  sound.  Poll  continued  to  afford  enter- 
tainment to  the  inhabitants  of  Darmstein  ;  but  the  old 
count  shook  his  head  when  he  compared  the  singular 
mode  of  its  introduction,  with  other  evidences  of  being 
under  the  influence  of  an  invisible,  though  at  present, 
protecting  power.  The  retainers  were  kept  on  the 
alert,  and  a  troop  of  soldiers  quartered  in  the  village. 

This  was  the  situation  of  affairs  when  the  Countess 
Belheim,  a  distant  relative  of  the  family,  came  to  visit 
them.     Her  usual  residence  was  near  Tabor,  and  no- 


24  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

thing  but  urgent  business,  which  she  had  to  transact 
with  Count  Darmstein,  could  have  induced  her  to  stir 
from  home  in  the  actual  state  of  the  country.  She  was 
received  with  great  pleasure,,  especially  by  Albertine, 
the  neighbourhood  affording  but  little  society.  As  the 
two  ladies  were  sitting  together  the  next  morning,  dis- 
cussing the  last  new  fashions,  romances,  and  other  lady- 
like subjects,  the  parrot  began  to  scream.  The  countess 
looked  round,  and  asked  with  surprise  how  it  came  there. 

«<Why,  have  you  ever  seen  it  before?"  inquired  Al- 
bertine, vvith  a  painful  misgiving.  "Seen  it  before!" 
answered  the  elder  lady,  «'  I  am  almost  certain  it  is 
mine — the  same  which  I  lost  in  the  most  unaccount- 
able manner,  about  two  months  ago.  Pray  tell  me 
how  you  came  by  it  ?" 

Albertine's  distress  augmented  with  every  word  of 
her  visitor's  ;  however,  she  related  the  bird's  first  ap- 
pearance at  her  window. 

The  countess  listened  with  an  air  almost  of  incredulity. 

*'But  that  we  may  be  quite  sure  of  the  fact,"  said 
she,  *^pray  open  the  cage  door." 

Albertine  complied  ;  and  the  parrot  hopped  round, 
fluttered  its  wings,  and  flying  to  the  countess's  shoul- 
der, caressed  her  with  all  the  familiarity  of  long  ac- 
quaintance. 

<'  It  must  be  so — you  are  right.  Take  the  bird — and 
never  let  me  see  it  again,"  said  Albertine,  bitterly,  at 
the  same  time  moving  towards  the  window  to  conceal 
her  vexation. 

Madame  de  Belheim,  who  attributed  her  young 
friend's  emotion  to  the  idea  of  losing  her  favourite, 
entreated  her,  with  great  kindness,  to  accept  it  as  a 
voluntary  gift,  and  to  think  no  more  of  its  having  been 
stolen. 

«<  Stolen  !"  repeated  Albertine,  in  a  tone  approaching 
to  a  shriek,  whilst  her  flushed  cheeks  changed  to  a 
deadly  pale.  "Yes — you  are  right,"  she  continued, 
after  a  pause,  in  which  she  endeavoured  to  compose 
herself.  "  I  thank  you  for  the  offer,  though  I  cannot 
accept  it ;  the  bird  is  hateful  to  me,  now  that  I  know 
whence  it  comes." 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  25 

The  countess  endeavoured  to  persuade  her  that  the 
person  to  whom  she  was  indebted  for  this  present,  and 
who  had  obviousl)^  hazarded  his  life  to  place  it  at  the 
window,  might  have  obtairned  it  honestly, — purchased 
it,  perhaps,  of  the  thief. 

"  No,  no!"  exclaimed  Albertine,  with  the  vehemence 
of  despair,  <'  that  is  impossible!" 

'«  How  ?  then  you  know  who  it  was  ?"  said  her  friend. 

«^I  know  nothing — nothing,"  said  Albertine,  in  a 
hurried  voice,  '^  nothing,  but  that  I  am  wretched.  Sto- 
len! good  God!  stolen!  stolen!" 

This  violence,  and  the  passionate  burst  of  tears  which 
accompanied  her  words,  astounded  the  countess.  She 
foreboreto  press  the  agitated  girl  further,  and  attempted 
to  turn  the  conversation  into  a  different  channel.  Af- 
ter some  time,  Albertine  was  composed  enough  to  ask 
who  of  the  Belheim  family  was  named  Adrian  ? 

**  Adrian!  there  is  no  one  of  that  name  belonging  to 
me." 

Albertine  was  silent,  and  appeared  lost  in  thought. 

*' Perhaps,"  resumed  the  countess,  <'it  is  the  name 
of  your  invisible  but  adventurous  knight.  He  may 
have  taught  it  to  the  parrot,  in  order  to  insure  your 
occasional  remembrance  of  the  donor.  Who  knows 
but  it  may  lead  to  a  discovery!" 

'*No,  impossible!  I  never  knew  any  man  of  the 
name!"  almost  screamed  Albertine,  whose  agitation 
seemed  to  be  renewed  by  this  supposition. 

The  countess  said  no  more  ;  for  it  was  evident  to  her, 
that  the  subject  could  not  be  touched  upon,  without 
throwing  the  young  lady  into  agonies.  She,  there- 
fore, suppressed  her  thoughts  until  an  opportunity  of- 
fered of  imparting  them  to  Count  Frederick,  to  whom 
it  had  never  occurred  that  the  heart  of  his  bride  could 
have  been  in  any  degree  endangered  by  the  mysterious 
introduction  of  a  parrot.  After  giving  the  matter  due 
consideration,  during  which  he  accidentally  saw  himself 
in  the  opposite  mirror,  he  concluded  that  he  had  little 
to  apprehend  from  a  rival,  and  especially  from  one 
whose  attentions  were  of  a  nature  so  equivocal. 

The  day  of  Countess  Belheim's  departure  was  fixed. 
Vol.  H.— C 


26  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

But  the  tales  of  robbery  and  murder,  which  she  had 
heard  during  her  visit,  considerably  augmented  the 
terror  with  which  she  had  originally  undertaken  the 
journey.  Her  host  proposed  to  add  some  of  his  own 
armed  retainers  to  her  escort.  "  And  most  happy 
should  I  be  to  attend  you  myself,  countess.  But  this 
gouty  shoe  disqualifies  me  for  the  office  of  champion  to 
so  fair  a  lady.  I  trust,  therefore,  that  you  will  permit 
me  to  substitute  my  son  as  a  more  efficient  protector." 

Disagreeable  as  was  the  duty  thus  imposed  upon 
him,  in  the  existing  state  of  things,  neither  respect  for 
his  father,  or  regard  to  his  own  reputation,  allowed 
Count  Frederick  to  decline  it.  He  acquitted  himself 
with  a  good  grace,  and  returned  safe  and  unharmed  to 
Darmstein.  Albertine  had  not  been  able  to  suppress 
considerable  uneasiness  for  the  friend  of  her  childhood, 
on  grounds  which  she  durst  not  explain,  and  anxiously 
watched  for  his  return.  She  met  him  in  the  portal, 
expressing  her  joy  at  his  safety.  Frederick,  touched 
with  this  evidence  of  affection,  repaid  her  with  a  tender, 
but  hurried  embrace:  while  his  countenance  indicated 
impatience  to  communicate  some  matter  of  importance 
with  which  his  mind  was  pre-occupied. 

*^  Who  do  you  think  I  have  seen  Albertine  ?  I  give 
you  three  guesses;  but  wait,  my  father  must  hear  it  too." 

Thus  saying,  he  drew  her  with  him  into  the  Count's 
study,  where  his  eagerness  to  tell  his  adventure  abridged 
the  forms  of  salutation. 

^<  Father,  I  have  seen  Black  Fritz!" 

^^  Black  Fritz!"  exclaimed  both  his  auditors. 

<«  Yes,  Black  Fritz  himself!  and,  moreover,  I  have 
been  as  near  him  as  I  am  to  you." 

•^  Is  he  taken  at  last?"  inquired  Count  Darmsteln. 

^^No  that  is  not  it." 

"  Then  you  have  been  attacked  by  him,"  said  Alber- 
tine, trembling  so  violently  as  to  be  obliged  to  catch 
hold  of  her  cousin's  arm.  Ascribing  her  agitation  to 
anxiety  for  him,  Frederick  gratefully  pressed  her  hand 
to  his  heart,  and  led  her  to  a  chair. 

"God  forbid!"  said  he,  ^'I  spoke  to  him  as  tranquilly 
as  I  now  speak  to  you." 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE. 


27 


«  In  God's  name,  go  on — and  say  how  it  was" — said 
his  impatient  father. 

Frederick  drew  his  chair  close  to  the  fire,  and  gave 
the  following  account  of  his  adventure. — "  I  was  detained 
this  morning  at  the  first  stage  from  Tabor,  for  want  of 
horses.  I  thought  it  prudent  to  conceal  my  rank,  lest 
any  of  the  vagabonds,  employed  as  scouts  by  the  brig- 
ands, should  be  lurking  about  the  inn.  Therefore,  in- 
stead of  demanding  a  private  chamber,  1  seated  myself 
in  the  public  room,  and  directed  my  people  not  to  say 
that  they  belonged  to  me.  The  room  was  already  oc- 
cupied by  a  variety  of  persons  who  had  taken  shelter 
from  the  snow  storm;  peasants,  travellers,  and  a  corpo- 
ral, with  ten  or  a  dozen  troopers  of  those  employed  to 
patrol  the  roads.  Amid  the  din  of  voices,  I  could  dis- 
tinguish much  that  was  said  about  Black  Fritz  and  his 
exploits:  also,  that  he  was  then  in  that  neighbourhood, 
and  had  several  times  narrowly  escaped  falling  into  the 
hands  of  the  soldiers.  All  I  heard,  only  served  to 
augment  my  desire  to  proceed,  lest  I  should  be  compel- 
led to  travel  after  sunset;  and  I  was  expressing  my  anx- 
iety on  the  subject  to  the  landlord,  when  two  more 
guests  entered.  One  was  a  youngish,  but  very  respect- 
able looking  priest;  and  the  other,  as  well  as  I  could 
judge  by  his  air  and  address,  might  be  the  village  school- 
master. The  profession  of  the  former  seemed  to  im- 
pose silence  on  the  noisy  crew.  Having  called  for  wine, 
the  new  comers  placed  themselves  quietly  at  the  extre- 
mity of  a  long  table,  w^hich  occupied  the  end  of  the 
room  where  I  was  seated.  The  sensation  produced  by 
the  entrance  of  the  ecclesiastic  gradually  subsided,  and 
the  soldiers  resumed  their  clamorous  discourse.  They 
spoke  as  if  well  acquainted  with  Black  Fritz's  person, 
which  they  described  as  little  short  of  monstrous.  The 
priest's  companion  got  up,  and  went  out  of  the  room, 
whilst  he  himself  approached  the  troopers,  and  entered 
freely  into  conversation  with  them — asking  how  it  hap- 
pened, that,  so  well  informed  as  they  appeared  to  be, 
respecting  this  terrible  miscreant,  they  had  not  yet  been 
able  to  take  him.  They  replied  in  the  same  rodomon- 
tading tone  as  they  had  been  conversing  in  before;  and 
I  thought  I  could  see  that  the  new  interlocutor  was  pur- 


28  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

posely  leading  them  on,  to  boast  of  what  they  would  do 
with  Black  Fritz,  when  they  caught  him. 

*'  And  what  would  you  do — were  he  here  now  ?" 
said  he,  in  a  tone  which  made  my  blood  run  cold,  and 
which  seemed  to  disconcert  the  company;  for  the  ques- 
tion remained  unanswered — and  we  were  all  looking  at 
one  another,  as  if  each  expected  to  see  the  terrific  rob- 
ber in  his  next  neighbour; — when  the  schoolmaster  re- 
turned, and  said  some  words  which  I  did  not  under- 
stand. The  priest  suddenly  advanced  into  the  middle 
of  the  room — and  shouting  in  a  voice  of  thunder — '^l 
am  Black  Fritz," — threw  off  the  clerical  hat  and  cloak, 
which  had  shaded  and  partially  covered  his  features,  and 
stood  before  us,  as  a  young  man  of  strikingly  handsome, 
and,  I  might  say,  awfully  majestic  aspect.  He  presented 
a  pistol  with  each  hand,  and  commanded  the  spectators 
to  stand  back  at  their  peril; — his  companion  brandished 
a  huge  sabre;  and  the  two  brigands  made  their  retreat — 
whilst  we  all  stood  fixed  and  motionless  with  amaze- 
ment. 

<<  The  devil !"  exclaimed  Count  Darmstein,  *'  and  did 
nobody  follow  them  ?" 

^<0h,  yes  !  the  troopers  rushed  out  to  their  horses, 
which  they  had  left  under  a  shed,  whilst  they  were 
drinking  in  the  house.  They  found  their  saddle-girths 
cut;  and  some  of  them  who  hastily  attempted  to  mount, 
before  they  had  discovered  the  trick,  were  rolled  in  the 
mire.  They  vented  their  rage  in  oaths  and  impreca- 
tions, which  mingled  strangely  with  the  wild  shouts  of 
laughter  with  which  the  robbers  saluted  them,  as  they 
galloped  past  with  the  speed  of  a  whirlwind.'^ 

"  Incredible!'^  exclaimed  his  father — ^'  That  a  whole 
roomful  of  men,  and  many  of  ihem  soldiers,  should  thus 
have  suffered  themselves  to  be  bearded  by  a  couple  of 
rascally  brigands  V^ 

Albertine  begged  her  cousin  to  describe  Black  Fritz's 
person — but  he  declined,  promising  in  a  day  or  two  to 
gratify  her  curiosity  beyond  her  expectations.  This 
narrative  caused  the  remembrance  she  most  laboured  to 
banish  from  her  mind,  to  return  more  vividly;  and  ac- 
companied by  a  mortifying  consciousness  of  the  insig- 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  29 

nificant  figure  that  her  lover  must  have  made,  in  com- 
parison with  the  fearless  freebooter. 

Frederick  spent  the  greatest  part  of  the  two  succeed- 
ing days  in  his  own  apartments;  and,  on  the  third,  came 
with  an  air  of  mysterious  exultation  to  request  Alber- 
tine's  presence  in  the  picture  gallery,  where  he  led  her 
up  to  her  favourite  painting  of  their  heretical  ancestor 
in  prison.  '*See  there!"  he  said.  She  started  back 
with  an  exclamation  of  horror;  for  the  face  of  the  cap- 
tive was  now  turned  towards  her;  and  exhibited  the 
features  of  her  mountain  friend,  gazing  upon  her  in  stern 
despair.  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  ran 
out  of  the  gallery.  Frederick  followed,  triumphing  in, 
what  he  believed,  the  power  of  his  pencil ;  and  found 
her  leaning  against  a  pillar  in  the  adjoining  saloon,  pale 
as  ashes,  and  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Good  Heavens!  dearest  Albertine  !  what  is  the 
matter  ?  Can  such  terror  have  been  produced  by  a 
mere  work  of  art  ?  You  know  how  often  we  have  dis- 
puted on  this  point;  you  used  to  admire  the  picture, 
partly  because  the  artist,  by  concealing  the  face,  had 
allowed  full  scope  for  the  imagination  of  the  spectator  ; 
whilst  I  maintained  that  it  was  a  poor  expedient  to 
which  he  had  been  driven,  by  his  incapacity  to  do  jus- 
tice to  the  captain's  feelings.  I,  therefore,  seized  this 
opportunity  of  deciding  the  question,  and  have  given  to 
our  ancestor  the  features  of  Black  Fritz." 

Albertine  groaned  and  shuddered.  Frederick  con- 
tinued— '^  I  assure  you  it  is  without  exception  the  best 
likeness  I  ever  made;  and  the  effect  upon  you  satisfies 
me  that  I  have  succeeded  in  giving  to  the  countenance 
the  expression  I  intended.  1  never  saw  so  perfect  a  mo- 
del of  manly  beauty  !    Do  come  and  look  at  it  again." 

''No — not  for  the  universe!"  she  cried,  struggling  to 
release  her  hand  from  Frederick,  who  would  have  ur- 
ged her  into  the  gallery. 

"How  can  you  be  so  childish,  Albertine?  At  least 
you  will  confess  that  my  idea  was  a  happy  one  ?" 

''Oh  !  Frederick!  you  know  not  what  an  irreparable 
injury  you  have  done  me!" 

"Say  not   so,  dearest.     Nothing 'would  grieve  me 
VOL.  II. — c  2 


30  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

more  than  to  believe  you  in  earnest.  I  should  even 
regret  my  success  ;  but  admitting  that  the  first  sight  of 
the  picture  could  have  startled  you,  by  the  truth  and 
force  of  the  expression,  I  cannot  understand  this  contin- 
ued agitation." 

But  Albertine  heeded  not  his  words — she  averted  her 
face,  and  sobbed  convulsively.  Frederick  was  confound- 
ed— and  flattering  as  it  was  to  his  amateur  vanity — his 
kind  heart  was  grieved  to  see  her  suffer. 

She,  at  length,  became  sufficiently  composed  to  return 
to  her  chamber  ;  but  no  persuasion  could  induce  her  to 
revisit  the  picture  gallery.  Though  the  fatal  portrait 
was  removed  from  her  sight,  the  form  of  Black  Fritz 
haunted  both  her  sleeping  and  waking  dreams — not  as 
she  beheld  him  on  the  mountain — but  in  the  dungeon 
and  on  the  scaffold.  Her  imagination  stopped  not  here 
— it  followed  him  into  futurity — to  eternal  punishment! 
She  shrunk  from  the  thought.  To  contemplate  the 
perdition  of  a  soul  created  in  the  image  of  its  maker, 
and  which  might  yet  be  capable  of  being  restored  to 
that  likeness,  was  insupportable.  An  idea  at  length  pre- 
sented itself,  and  gradually  gained  absolute  possession 
of  her  mind.  It  was  the  bright,  but  visionary  hope  of 
saving  the  soul  of  the  guilty  and  erring  object  of  her 
deepest  sympathy,  at  which  she  grasped  with  all  the 
energy  of  her  character. 

The  winter  was  fast  gliding  away  :  the  snow  began 
to  melt  upon  the  mountains,  the  ice  to  float  in  broken 
masses  down  the  Moldau,  and  spring  showers  to  reani- 
mate the  fixed  and  lifeless  face  of  nature.  Frederick 
thought  with  complacency  of  his  approaching  marriage, 
whilst  every  allusion  to  it  chilled  the  heart  of  his  bride. 
Yet  Frederick,  ever  amiable  and  kind,  afforded  her  no 
pertext  for  dissolving  an  engagement,  which  had  so 
long  been  the  dearest  wish  of  her  revered  uncle  and  of 
all  her  family  :  she  exerted  herself,  therefore,  to  disci- 
pline her  mind  to  submJt  to  circumstances  on  which  the 
happiness  of  those  dearest  to  her  seemed  to  depend. 
But  an  unforeseen  delay  occurred.  A  law-suit  which 
had  long  occupied  Count  Darmstein's  attention,  was  on 
the  point  of  being  decided,  and  imperatively  demanded 
his  presence  in  Prague,  before  the  marriage  could  possi- 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  31 

bly  take  place.  Afiairs  of  equal  importance  requiring 
that  Frederick  should  remain  at  the  castle,  it  was  deter- 
mined that  Albertine  should  accompany  her  uncle. 

No  accident  or  impediment  occurred  during  the  first 
two  days  of  their  journey.  But  on  the  last,  as  they 
were  slowly  labouring  through  the  deep  ruts  of  a  road 
which  skirted  a  forest,  they  were  surrounded  by  several 
armed  men,  one  of  whom  demanded  their  money  and 
valuables.  The  Count,  fiery  and  resolute,  answered  by 
grasping  at  the  fire-arms  slung  in  front  of  the  carriage. 
The  robber,  perceiving  his  intention,  presented  a  pistol, 
which  luckily  missed  fire  ;  and  before  he  could  draw  ano- 
ther from  his  belt,  Albertine  threw  herself  across  her 
uncle,  tearing  Black  Fritz's  ring  from  the  chain,  by 
which  she  wore  it  round  her  neck,  and  held  it  out  to  the 
ruffian,  exclaiming  with  wild  agony,  «'0h!  forbear, 
forbear!  respect  your  captain's  signet  and  be  gone." 
The  robber  no  sooner  saw  the  ring,  than  he  blew  a  shrill 
whistle,  and  wheeling  round,  sprang  into  the  wood,  fol- 
lowed by  all  his  companions. 

After  an  interval,  in  which  the  domestics,  recovered 
from  their  consternation,  obeyed  their  master's  order 
to  proceed,  Albertine  was  asked  by  the  Count  for  an 
explanation  of  what  had  passed.  Thus  compelled,  she 
related  the  adventure  by  which  the  ring  had  come  into 
her  possession.  He  listened  with  dissatisfaction  to  her 
narrative.  His  niece,  the  object  of  a  brigand's  love,  and 
the  obvious  interest  with  which  she  spoke  of  him,  both 
gave  rise  to  unpleasant  reflections.  But  he  suppressed  ' 
them,  and  only  asked  to  look  at  the  ring. 

'^  Good  Heavens!  Count  Lanesky's  arms!  I  have  seen 
this  ring  a  thousand  times.  It  was  I,  who  gave  it  to 
him  many  years  ago,  under  circumstances  which  I  never 
can  forget." 

"  Lanesky,  Lanesky,"  repealed  Albertine  slowly,  as 
if  the  name  issued  unconsciously  from  her  lips.  The 
last  heir  of  the  house  of  Lanesky,  and  the  parrot's  re- 
petition of  the  name  of  Adrian,  fell  at  once  on  her  heart. 
Adrian  Lanesky  had  been  her  first  betrothed.  PVko  had 
given  her  the  parrot  ?  PVho  had  taught  it  to  speak  the 
name  of  Adrian?  She  trembled,  and  her  heart  beat 
quick;  for  from  the  depths  of  her  perplexed  feelings  and 


32  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

thoughts,  an  idea  arose  which  awakened  mingled  sen- 
sations of  fear,  grief,  and  pleasure. 

'^But,  said  you  not  that  the  fellow  valued  the  ring, 
and  yet  he  gave  it  to  you  ?     How  came  he  by  it  ?" 

'^  I  know  nothing,  dear  uncle,  but  what  I  have  told 
you.  He  assured  me  the  ring  was  very  dear  to  him, 
and  yet  he  seemed  deeply  hurt  by  my  offer  to  restore  it." 

*' By  Heavens!  the  scoundrel  is  in  love  with  you! 
and  here  is  an  explanation  of  all  the  mysteries  that  have 
so  long  perplexed  us.  My  niece,  the  Baroness  Bra- 
now,  the  object  of  a  bandit's  love!     Ha!  ha!'' 

The  count's  tone  cut  her  to  the  heart,  and  she  could 
not  restrain  her  tears.  She  was  silent,  but  her  resolu- 
tion to  befriend  the  unfortunate  being  whom  she  be- 
lieved to  be  the  victim  of  circumstances,  rather  than  of 
natural  depravity,  remained  unshaken. 

Little  more  was  said  on  either  side  during  the  rest 
of  the  journey.  The  count's  business  at  Prague  did 
not  prevent  him  from  secretly  instituting  inquiries  res- 
pecting the  ring.  Albertine  soon  perceived  that  she 
was  no  longer  a  free  agent,  as  before  ;  and  that  every 
motion  and  look  was  watched.  Unconscious  of  wrong, 
it  galled  her  to  find  herself  suspected  by  one  who  had 
hitherto  reposed  in  her  the  most  unlimited  confidence. 
She  had  steadily  combated  every  insidious  thought 
which  might  tend  to  weaken  her  resolution  of  being  to 
Frederick  a  faithful  and  affectionate  wife.  He  had  no 
right  to  more — nor  did  he  claim  it — for  he  could  not 
have  requited  a  more  passionate  feeling.  If  a  being  so 
shrouded  in  mystery,  as  sometimes  to  render  his  reality 
almost  doubtful,  held  an  undefined  place  in  Aer  heart, 
that  of  Frederick  was  openly  and  avowedly  divided 
between  the  arts  and  his  affianced  bride. 

The  history  of  the  count's  miraculous  escape,  caused 
a  great  sensation  in  Prague.  The  confused  and  exag- 
gerated reports  of  the  domestics  were  repeated  with 
new  additions  and  variations,  till  they  reached  the  judi- 
cial authorities,  who  had  received  instructions  from 
the  Emperor  Ferdinand  to  adopt  vigorous  measures 
against  these  disturbers  of  the  public  peace.  A  large 
reward  was  in  consequence  offered  for  the  apprehen- 
sion of  Black  Fritz  ;   and  Count  Darmstein  was  called 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  33 

upon  for  a  full  statement  of  his  encounter  with  the  ban- 
ditti. His  niece's  share  in  the  business  rendered  such 
an  investigation  peculiarly  embarrassing  :  but,  evasion 
being  impossible,  he  stated  the  facts,  and  the  judge  de- 
sired lo  see  the  robber's  ring.  Albertine  refused  to  part 
with  it, — she  supplicated  and  wept  in  vain.  Her  un- 
cle's commands  were  peremptory,  and  she  was  compel- 
led to  deliver  it  up,  with  feelings  of  helpless  despair 
and  self-reproach,  arising  from  a  conviction  that  she 
was  betraying  the  generous  donor  into  the  hands  of  his 
foes.  The  judge  required  that  the  ring  should  be  left 
with  him  for  a  week,  at  the  expiration  of  which,  it 
would  be  carefully  restored. 

This  period  elapsed,  on  the  part  of  Albertine,  in 
agonizing  suspense.  The  incessant  conflict  between 
her  anxiety  for  the  fate  of  the  bandit,  and  her  early 
principles  of  duty,  had  the  effect  of  deepening  her  inte- 
rest for  him,  until,  at  length,  it  assumed  the  character 
of  passion  ;  and  the  ideas,  suggested  by  her  uncle's 
recognition  of  the  ring,  seemed  to  legitimate  her  feelings. 

A  second,  and  a  third  week,  passed  on,  when  urged 
by  her  fears,  she  ventured  to  observe  to  her  uncle, 
that  the  judge  had  not  fulfilled  his  promise  of  restoring 
the  ring.  He  replied  sternl}^,  that  this,  as  well  as  every 
other  measure,  which  might  tend  to  the  apprehension 
of  such  miscreants,  v/as  justifiable  ;  adding  a  severe 
comment  on  the  interest  manifested  by  his  future 
daughter-in-law  for  the  leader  of  a  band  of  cut-throats. 

Albertine  heard  these  harsh  words  in  silence,  but 
they  sunk  deep  in  her  heart.  She  resolved  never  again 
to  speak  on  the  subject  to  her  uncle,  by  whose  ill- 
judged  severity  she  felt  deeply  injured.  Bitterness 
now  mingled  with  her  affection  for  him  ;  she  strug- 
gled less  and  less  against  the  disposition  to  draw  com- 
parisons unfavourable  to  his  son  ;  she  reflected  on  what 
would  have  become  of  the  elegant  and  accomplished 
Count  Frederick,  had  a  cruel  destiny  turned  hhn  adrift 
amongst  ferocious  and  corrupted  men  ;  in  situations 
where  he  would  have  had  to  defend  his  life  against  ene- 
mies, and  his  virtue  asjainst  example.  Her  imagination 
then  placed  the  bandit  in  the  bosom  of  a  noble  and  affec- 
tionate family — trained  by  honourable  men  to  the  practice 


34  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

of  virtue  and  usefulness  ;  painted  him  such  as  he  might 
have  been,  were  he  really  Adrian  Lanesky,  her  first 
betrothed  ; — and  her  tears  fell  upon  the  picture. 

Soon  after  this,  they  were  one  morning  sitting  at 
breakfast,  when  a  messenger  brought  the  ring,  with 
the  judge's  thanks.  Albertine's  eye  rested  with  an 
expression  of  fearful  inquiry  on  the  officer.  An  icy 
sickness  curled  over  her  heart — her  hand  shook  as  she 
extended  it  to  take  the  ring,  and  she  retired  without  a 
word.  In  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  one  of  her  wo- 
men burst  into  her  chamber,  with  the  intelligence  that 
Black  Fritz  was  taken,  and  would  be  brought  into  the 
city  in  chains  the  next  morning.  The  twilight  con- 
cealed from  the  speaker  the  death-like  paleness  of  her 
mistress,  and  her  own  loquacity  prevented  her  from 
perceiving  that  she  received  no  answer. 

'^  And  I — I  am  his  betrayer!"  she  exclaimed  in  bit- 
ter anguish,  when  her  informant  left  the  room.  For, 
that  he  had  been  taken  by  means  of  the  ring,  and  that 
his  supposed  love  for  her  had  been  made  the  engine  of 
his  destruction,  were  facts  which  could  not  admit  of  a 
doubt.  From  this  moment,  therefore,  since  enough 
had  been  conceded  to  the  severity  of  law,  and  nothing 
further  could  be  feared  from  their  victim,  she  abandoned 
herself  incessantly  to  feelings,  which  gathered  strength 
from  the  consciousness  of  having  injured  one  who, 
whatever  were  his  crimes  to  the  world,  had  acted  nobly 
and  disinterestedly  towards  herself. 

The  ensuing  day,  at  an  early  hour,  an  unusual  com- 
motion in  the  streets  confirmed  the  report  which  had 
so  dreadfully  agitated  her.  The  house  occupied  by 
Count  Darmstein  was  situated  in  the  principal  square 
through  which  the  criminal  must  pass  to  the  gaol.  He 
walked,  heavily  ironed  and  bare-headed,  between  two 
soldiers,  followed  by  several  of  his  band,  manacled 
together  in  couples,  a  strong  detachment  of  troops,  and 
an  immense  multitude  of  people,  forming  a  long  pro- 
cession. 

'*0h!  what  a  handsome  young  man!"  cried  one  of 
Albertine's  female  attendants,  assembled  at  the  window 
of  the  antechamber. 

<'  And  did  you  seys,"  said  the  other,  <'  how  wild  and 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  35 

fearfully  he  stared — every  now  and  then  shaking  his 
chains,  as  if  he  wanted  to  terrify  the  mob  that  followed 
him/' 

**No,  no;"  said  the  first  speaker,  <«I  think  it  was 
because  his  fetters  hurt  him.  Did  you  not  see  his  poor 
hand  all  streaming  with  blood  V 

**  Fie,  Theresa,  how  can  you  be  so  unchristian  as  to 
pity  a  wicked  robber  ?" 

^'I  can't  help  pitying  the  poor  young  man,"  replied 
the  tender-hearted  girl  ;  *^he  looks  so  unhappy,  and  is 
going  to  pay  so  dearly  for  his  sins.  Do  look,  Agnes, 
what  beautiful  hair!  He  walks,  too,  like  an  emperor, 
in  spite  of  his  chains." 

These,  and  like  words,  might  have  been  heard  by 
Albertine  through  the  open  door;  but  despair  had  be- 
numbed her  senses,  and  she  remained  motionless  in  the 
attitude  in  which  the  first  sound  that  announced  the 
passage  of  the  brigands  struck  upon  her  ear,  and  some 
hours  elapsed  before  she  was  able  to  leave  her  chamber. 
She  avoided  society  as  much  as  it  was  possible,  without 
incurring  the  displeasure  of  her  uncle;  for  nothing  now 
was  talked  of  at  Prague  but  the  famous  outlaw;  and  it 
was  with  changing  cheek  and  sinking  heart  that  she 
heard  every  difierent  version  of  his  history,  whether 
false  or  true. 

The  trial  of  Black  Fritz  proceeded,  and  the  principal 
facts  relating  to  his  life  and  origin  were  made  known 
by  some  of  his  companions.  They  stated  that  their 
chief  was  the  son  of,  or,  at  least,  had  been  brought 
up  by,  a  wood-cutter,  who  lived  on  the  border  of  a  forest 
in  Upper  Saxony,  and  was  the  agent  of  a  gang  of  rob- 
bers. Fritz  was  so  cruelly  treated  by  this  man,  that 
not  even  blows  could  prevail  on  him  to  call  the  ruffian 
father.  When  about  fifteen,  having  lost  his  mother, 
who  was  the  only  person  from  whom  he  had  received 
kindness,  he  ran  away,  and  joined  a  party  of  Swedish 
free-troops,  which  happened  to  be  bivouacking  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  forest.  His  fine  figure  and  dar- 
ing character  at  first  gained  him  the  favour  of  his 
comrades,  over  whom  he  soon  gained  an  ascendency. 
In  the  course  of  time  he  became  aware  of  his  deficien- 
cies in  the  qualifications  requisite  for  attaining  the  emi- 


36  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

nence  to  which  he  aspired;  but  he  was  not  discouraged. 
In  the  leisure  hours,  devoted  by  his  associates  to  gamb- 
ling and  drinking,  he  learned  to  read  and  write,  and 
became  a  good  military  draftsman.  His  exemplary 
conduct  attracted  the  notice  of  his  superiors,  and  the 
daring  prowess  and  fertility  in  expedients  which  distin- 
guished him  on  every  occasion,  was  rewarded  by  such 
rapid  promotion,  that  at  twenty  he  commanded  a  com- 
pany in  a  free  corps.  A  brilliant  career  was  now  opened 
to  him,  and  to  this  all  the  powers  of  his  vigorous  mind 
were  directed.  He  wished  to  forget  the  wretched  and 
degrading  period  of  his  existence  in  the  wood-cutter's 
hovel,  beyond  which  his  mind  delighted  to  trace  dim 
visions,  of  having  been,  in  early  infancy,  the  object  of 
tender  solicitude  to  persons  of  very  different  cast  from 
those  who  had  claimed  his  filial  obedience.  It  gratified 
his  pride  to  connect  such  reminiscences  with  a  seal  ring, 
given  to  him,  on  her  death- bed,  by  the  wood-cutter's  wife, 
who  told  him  it  was  his  rightful  property,  charging  him 
neither  to  part  with,  or  suffer  it  to  be  seen  by  her  husband 
and  his  associates.  He  changed  the  name  of  Fritz  to  that 
of  Adrian,  which  he  had  an  indistinct  recollection  of 
having  once  borne,  and  strove  ardently  to  merit  the 
honour  and  renown  which  he  believed  to  be  his  birth- 
right. Proud  and  unbending,  he  desired  to  rise  by  his 
deeds  alone,  and  neglected  to  cultivate  the  good  will  of 
those  who  might  have  aided  him.  By  pursuing  this  line 
of  conduct  he  at  length  made  enemies,  who  joined  with 
rivals  to  thwart  all  liis  views  of  further  advancement. 
Younger,  and  less-tried  men,  were  put  over  his  head, 
only  because  they  possessed  the  advantages  of  a  noble 
lineage,  of  which  a  hard  fate  had  deprived  him.  Mor- 
tification engendered  bitter  and  resentful  feelings  to- 
wards his  equals  and  superiors;  yet,  in  spite  of  every 
obstacle,  his  distinguished  merit  would  have  obtained 
him  the  rank  to  which  he  aspired  in  the  regular  army 
of  Gustavus,  when  he  was  unjustly  included  in  the  re- 
duction which  took  place  at  the  peace.  All  hope  was 
now  at  an  end.  Goaded  by  disappointment,  revenge, 
and  distress,  and  animated  by  his  natural  inclination  for 
a  life  of  peril  and  adventure,  he  leagued  himself  with 
men  of  fortunes  as  desperate  as  his  own,  to  wage  war 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  37 

upon  that  society  through  whose  arbitrary  decrees  all 
his  efforts  to  attain  honourable  distinction  had  been  frus- 
trated.    Unanimously  elected  their  chief,  all  the  ener- 
gies of  his  bold  and  ambitious  spirit  were  employed  in 
rendering  the  band  formidable;     He  conceived  and  ex- 
ecuted the  most  daring  and  hazardous  enterprises,  main- 
tained rigid  discipline,  and  exacted  from  his  men  a  spe- 
cies of  rude  honour  in  all  their  proceedings;  every  where 
showing  himself  the  friend  of  the  poor,  and  the  scourge 
of  their  oppressors.     But  the  quick-sighted  sagacity  and 
caution  which  had  defied  both  the  stratagems  and  open 
attacks  of  civil  and  military  power,  were  lulled  asleep 
by  the  insidious  persuasions  of  the  passion  which  now 
engrossed  his  heart,  and  he  fell  into  the  snare  prepared 
for  him.     He  obeyed  a  summons  from  a  woman  he 
loved,  secretly  conveyed  to  his  hands,  and  sealed  with 
his  own  ring,  which  he  had   given  her  that  she  might 
pass  with  safety  through  the  country  infested  by  his  band. 
In  the  bitterness  of  his  heart  he  had  cursed  his  betrayer; 
imprisonment  and    death  were  as   nothing,  compared 
with  the  treachery  of  the  only  being  he  had  ever  loved. 
At  the  house  of  a  relation,  an  old  Chanoinesse,  Al- 
bertine  met  a  Dominican  friar,  then  celebrated  for  his 
preaching,  whose  mild  and  dignified  countenance  inspi- 
red confidence  and  respect.    Here  the  conversation  also 
turned  upon  Black  Fritz;  and  it  appeared  that  Father 
Theodore  was  the  priest  on  whom  devolved  the  melan- 
choly duty  of  administering  spiritual  consolation  to  con- 
demned malefactors.     The  venerable  man  expressed  a 
warm  interest  for  the  subject  of  their  discourse,  whose 
state  he  described  as  exciting  his  deepest  commiseration. 
The  unfortunate  man  had  hitherto  maintained  a  moody 
silence,  and,  more  than  once,  attempted  self  destruction; 
on  which  account  he  was  now  watched  both  night  and 
day — the  government  being  resolved  to  make  an  exam- 
ple of  him.     '*  There  is  a  wild  despair  in  the  young 
n(ian,"  said  the  monk,   ''  which  seems  to  proceed  less 
from  the  consciousness  of  his  guilt,  and  the  dread  of 
punishment,  than  from  inordinate  pride  writhing  under 
disgrace,  together  with  a  bitter  sense  of  injury  towards 
some  person  who  must  have  deceived  or  betrayed  him." 
Vol.  II.— D 


38  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

**And  has  he  not  named  this  person?"  asked  the 
Chanoinesse. 

^«  Never!"  replied  the  father.  ^^Some  words  which 
have  unconsciously  dropped  from  him,  might  lead  to 
the  belief  that  the  object  of  his  indignation  was  a  wo- 
man. But  he  will  not  answer  any  questions  that  are  put 
to  him." 

"  Then  I  suppose  he  will  be  executed  without  delay," 
observed  one  of  the  company.  This  was  too  much  for 
Albertine — she  laboured  to  suppress  her  feelings,  but 
the  ashy  paleness  of  her  countenance,  her  contracted 
brow,  and  fading  eye,  betrayed  to  the  observant  glance 
of  Father  Theodore,  the  impression  produced  by  their 
discourse. 

*'  No — I  hope  not,"  he  replied,  still  looking  at  Al- 
bertine. **  If  the  unhappy  man  acknowledges  nothing 
— at  least,  he  denies  nothing.  The  facts  against  him  are 
sufficiently  proved  by  the  confession  of  his  accomplices, 
as  well  as  the  testimony  of  witnesses.  His  life  therefore 
is  forfeited  to  the  law — but  I  trust  that  a  respite  will  be 
granted,  and  that  his  soul  may  yet  be  saved." 

At  the  concluding  words  of  the  monk,  Albertine 
raised  her  eyes  with  a  glance  of  deep  scrutiny  on  his 
face,  and  discovered  there  such  an  unequivocal  expres- 
sion of  benevolence  and  devotion,  as  at  once  converted 
the  wish,  she  had  so  long  cherished,  into  a  positive  de- 
termination; and  she  sat,  during  the  remainder  of  the 
visit,  absorbed  in  consideration  of  the  means  by  which 
it  might  be  carried  into  effect. 

The  next  morning,  she  arose  early,  and  saying  that 
she  was  going  to  confession,  she  repaired  to  tlie  con- 
vent of  St  Dominic.  On  signifying  hr  wish  to  the 
sacristan,  Father  Theodore  came  and  took  his  seat  in 
the  confessional,  at  which  she  was  kneeling.  She  re- 
vealed to  him  her  long  engagement  to  her  cousin — her 
strongly  combated  inclination  for  th(5  bandit,  and  the 
share  she  had  been  compelled  to  lake  in  his  apprehen- 
sion. She  then  proceeded  to  express  her  dread,  lest  the 
perdition  of  the  prisoner's  soul  should  be  the  conse- 
quence of  her  supposed  treachery  ; — and  also  her 
belief,  that  if  she  could  but  convey  to  him  an  explan- 
ation of  her  conduct,  it  might  soften   his  heart,   and 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  39 

open  a  way  for  the  admission  of  the  consolations  of  re- 
ligion. 

The  confessor  suffered  her  to  proceed  without  inter- 
ruption, and  remained  in  profound  thought  for  some 
time  after  she  had  ceased  speaking.  *'  Is  it  possible, 
daughter,"  he  said  at  length,  *'  that  thou  canst  seriously 
wish  to  take  a  measure,  which,  however  laudable  in  its 
object,  must  be  attended  with  so  much  risk  and  difficul- 
ty r' 

'^  There  can  be  none,  holy  father,  that  1  would  hesi- 
tate to  encounter." 

''  Then  lady,  1  will  consider  of  the  m.atter.  Be  here 
again  in  eight  days,  in  this  spot,  and  at  this  hour.  Let 
none  suspect  thy  intentions,  and  be  not  hasty  to  indulge 
hope  as  to  their  result.  For  we  have  not  to  deal  with 
one  who  hath  erred  from  levity  or  feebleness,  but  with 
an  impenitent  obdurate  sinner."  The  reverend  father 
exposed  the  nature  of  the  undertaking,  and  some  of  its 
possible  consequences,  with  the  zeal  and  eloquence 
which  so  well  qualified  him  for  the  high  office  of  *^  cal- 
ling sinners  to  repentance." 

Albertine  departed  somewhat  dissatisfied  notwith- 
standing ;  for  she  could  not  but  construe  such  delay  into 
reluctance  to  forward  her  wishes.  But^she  was  not  to 
be  disheartened  ;  and  should  Father  Theodore  disap- 
point her,  she  resolved  to  seek  other  means  of  effecting 
her  purpose. 

On  the  eight  day  she  presented  herself  again  at  the 
convent.  Father  Theodore  was  already  in  the  confes- 
sional, and  a  gleam  of  satisfaction  accompanied  the  sur- 
prize with  which  he  received  her.  <'  I  have  consider- 
ed your  request,  daughter  ;  but  nothing  can  be  done 
unless  you  go  with  me  to  the  prisoner." 

Unprepared  for  such  a  measure,  Albertine  started  ; 
but  instantly  recovering  her  presence  of  mind,  she  re- 
plied with  firmness  : — '^If  it  must  be  so,  father,  I  am 
ready.  With  you  for  my  guide,  it  cannot  be  wrong, 
and  all  other  considerations  are  insignificant.  Promise 
only  that  the  knowledge  of  this  step  shall,  if  possible, 
be  confined  to  yourself  and  him,  for  whose  eternal  weal 
it  is  hazarded.     Name  the  day  and  hour." 

The  monk  paused,  then  said   to  her  with  increased 


40  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

solemnity  of  tone  and  gesture,  «'  Once  more,  daughter, 
I  ask,  if  thou  hast  duly  measured  thy  strength,  and 
whether  it  be  sufficient  to  encounter  consequences  such 
as  cannot  be  foreseen  by  mortal  wisdom  ?" 

^'  Yes,  holy  father,  my  resolution  is  immoveable.  I 
will  save  his  precious  soul  !  and  thus  requite  that  love 
which  has  brought  him  to  the  scaffold  !^^ 

The  countenance  of  the  monk  brightened,  as  he  con- 
templated the  calm  devotedness  of  the  highminded,  as 
well  as  highborn  and  lovely  being  before  him.  He 
fixed  the  next  day  for  the  interview  with  Black  Fritz  ; 
it  was  a  festival,  and  she  was  directed  to  attend  high 
mass  at  the  church  of  St  Dominic,  from  whence  it 
would  be  easy  to  glide  through  the  crowd  into  the  sa- 
cristy, were  he  should  wait  to  conduct  her  to  the 
prison,  which  was  in  the  same  street. 

They  met  at  the  appointed  time,  and  Father  Theo- 
dore wrapped  her  in  the  white  serge  habit  of  his  order, 
that  she  might  accompany  him  unremarked.  She  was 
pale,  but  on  her  face  might  be  read  the  characters  of 
fixed  and  firm  resolution.  As  they  drew  near  the  pri- 
son, she  crossed  her  arms  upon  her  bosom,  as  if  to  re- 
press the  violent  throbbings  of  her  heart.  The  sacred 
office  of  Father  Theodore  allowing  him  at  all  times  free 
access  to  the  prisoners,  he  and  his  companion  were  con- 
ducted, unquestioned  by  the  gaoler,  through  the  intri- 
cate windings  of  a  low  vaulted  passage,  lighted  here 
and  there  by  a  glimmering  lamp.  The  sounds  that 
echoed  through  this  dark  abode  of  misery  and  crime, 
might  have  chilled  the  stoutest  heart  ;  but  Albertine's 
senses  were  closed  to  all  external  impressions.  At  the 
end  of  a  corridor,  they  descended  a  flight  of  steps,  at  the 
foot  of  which  their  guide  unlocked  a  strong  iron-clench- 
ed door,  and  they  entered  the  robber's  cell. 

The  light  admitted  by  a  narrow  window  near  the 
roof  discovered  to  their  view  the  prisoner,  stretched 
upon  a  straw  pallet  ;  and  prevented  from  moving  to  any 
distance  by  a  chain  attached  to  the  iron  collar  round  his 
neck,  then  passed  through  a  staple  in  the  wall,  and  se- 
cured by  an  enormous  padlock.  He  lay  with  his  face 
to  the  wall,  without  seeming  to  notice  the  entrance  of 
the  visiters.    The  monk  advanced,  and  addressed  him  in 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  41 

accents  of  kindness,  *«  Fritz,  my  son,  look  up — she  is 
here/'  He  withdrew  the  cowl  which  concealed  Alber- 
tine's  features,  and  the  robber  sprung  up  on  his  feet, 
with  a  tremendous  imprecation.  The  chains  rattled, 
and  the  ponderous  padlock  fell  to  the  ground  with  a 
crash,  pulling  down  with  its  weight  a  frame  already  de- 
bilitated by  confinement  and  mental  sufiering. 

*'My  God  !"  exclaimed  Albertine,  and  rushed  for- 
ward to  his  assistance  ;  but  she  retreated  again  as  he 
raised  himself  on  one  arm,  and  considered  her  with 
tenderness.  *'  Art  thou  come  to  this  den  of  wretched- 
ness ?"  He  paused — his  brow  grew  mere  dark,  and  he 
continued  with  a  tone  of  stern  irony  ;  ^'  what  wouldst 
thou  of  me  ?  What  new  treachery  hast  thou  devised  ? 
what  new  toils  to  deliver  me  into  the  hands  of  my  ene- 


mies 


?" 


Father  Theodore  endeavoured  to  soothe  him.  **  Si- 
lence, priest,  I  speak  not  to  thee,"  said  the  robber, 
fiercely  interrupting  him  ;  and  with  a  wild  incoherent 
burst  of  passion,  in  which  words  of  deep  pathos  rapid- 
ly alternated  with  the  bitterest  expressions  of  resent- 
ment and  despair,  he  bared  the  inmost  recesses  of  a  heart 
madly  devoted  to  the  being  on  whom  he  thus  vented  his 
frantic  wrath.  She  wept — and  her  tears  gradually 
seemed  to  still  the  tempest  which  her  presence  had  rai- 
sed in  his  soul,  till  then  wrapt  in  moody  sullenness. 
As  his  violence  abated,  she  drew  nearer  to  him.  "Hear 
me,  I  beseech  you,  hear  me.  I  am  innocent  of  the  hor- 
rid treachery  you  attribute  to  me,  or  I  could  not  stand 
here!"  He  listened,  as  though  unwilling  to  be  convinc- 
ed, to  her  detail  of  the  circumstances  by  which  the  ring 
had  been  extorted  from  her  ;  but  in  the  progress  of  her 
justification,  she  had  approached  the  pallet  where  he  lay, 
and  attempted  to  sustain  the  padlock,  the  weight  of  which 
acting  like  a  pulley,  drew  the  chain  so  tight  as  to  threaten 
strangulation  at  every  sudden  movement  of  the  prisoner. 

''What  are  you  doing?"  he  exclaimed,  abruptly 
wrenching  from  her  a  burden  so  unbefitting  a  woman's 
hands.  Albertine  uttered  a  cry  of  terror  at  beholding 
her  white  robes  steeped  in  the  blood  which  flowed 
from  his  lacerated  wrists.  She  tore  her  veil,  and,  aided 
VOL.  II D  2 


42  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

by  the  monk,  bound  up  the  wounds  inflicted  by  the 
gyves.  "Am  I  awake?"  exclaimed  the  object  of  this 
tender  care,  whom  amazement  rendered  passive  during 
the  operation.  ''Can  I  believe  that  I  am  not  utterly 
abandoned  and  despised  ?" 

Albertine  raised  her  head,  and  fixed  her  tearful  eyes 
earnestly  on  his.  "Adrian,^'  said  she,  with  deep  and 
solemn  emphasis,  "you  have  my  truest  love — it  has 
long,  long  been  yours — then  believe  me  when  I  swear, 
by  all  my  hopes  of  salvation  for  us  both,  I  am  guiltless." 

"Merciful  God!"  cried  he  aloud,  overpowered  by 
her  words,  and  by  the  feelings  which  they  awakened. 
«'But  no — no!  God  has  no  mercy  for  a  wretch  like 
me!"  He  fell  on  his  face,  and  his  breast  heaved  with 
convulsive  agony. 

Albertine  laid  her  hand  gently  upon  his  shoulder, 
still  kneeling  by  his  side.  "  Eternity  is  not  more 
boundless  than  the  mercy  of  the  Almighty.  Canst  thou, 
a  frail  and  erring  man,  forgive  the  cause  of  these  chains; 
and  shall  not  our  heavenly  father  pardon  his  repentant 
child  ?" 

Father  Theodore  now  brought  to  her  aid  all  the 
powers  derived  him  his  holy  ministry,  and  from  his 
profound  knowledge  of  human  nature.  The  icebound 
surface  of  the  prisoner's  heart  melted  before  the  warm 
beams  of  hope,  diffused  by  the  purest  spirit  of  Chris- 
tian charity.  The  robber  raised  his  head,  remorseful 
drops  slowly  gathering  in  eyes  that  never  wept  till 
now.  The  monk  hailed  these  symptoms  of  awaken- 
ing grace,  and  sought  to  confirm  them  by  repeating  the 
Gospel's  promise  to  him  'who  turneth  away  from  his 
iniquity.'  Intense  and  agonizing  feelings  agitated  the 
prisoner  :  starting  up  from  the  pallet,  he  threw  himself 
upon  his  knees,  clasped  his  shackled  hands  together, 
and  deep  hesitating  accents  of  repentance  broke  from 
his  quivering  lips. 

At  that  instant  the  sun  broke  through  the  clouds, 
and  partially  illuminated  the  prison,  pouring  its  heams 
through  the  grated  window  upon  the  kneeling  penitent. 
"His  prayer  is  heard!  he  is  forgiven!"  cried  Albertine, 
as  with  a  burst  of  joyful  enthusiasm  she  fell  upon  the 
robber's  neck,  and  mingled  her  tears  with  his. 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  43 

"My  son,"  said  the  monk,  laying  his  trembling 
hand  on  the  young  man's  head,  **the  blessing  as  well 
as  the  mercy  of  God  is  with  the  repentant  sinner  !" 

A  solemn  pause  ensued,  which  Father  Theodore  was 
the  first  to  break.  *'  Lady  Albertine,"  he  said,  "allow 
me  to  conduct  you  hence.  I  must  confer  in  private 
with  the  prisoner." 

She  bowed  assent.  The  prisoner  asked  with  a  fal- 
tering voice  and  eager  eye  whether  he  might  hope  to 
see  her  once  more  before  his  death. 

<'  We  meet  again,  Adrian,"  she  replied  ;  *<we  shall 
not  long  be  parted!"  and  drawing  the  cowl  over  her 
face,  the  monk  led  her  forth. 

The  change  wrought  in  the  outlaw's  feelings  was 
soon  apparent.  He  was  no  longer  silently  sullen  be- 
fore his  judges — but  freely  confessed  his  guilt.  He 
wished  not  for  mercy.  The  only  object  which  could 
have  rendered  existence  desirable,  was  the  love  of  her, 
whose  gentle  influence  had  awakened  the  nobler  qual- 
ities of  his  nature  ;  but  from  whom  he  was  divided  by 
his  crimes.  His  most  ardent  wish,  therefore,  was  to 
hasten  the  conclusion  of  a  life  poisoned  by  the  sense  of 
degradation. 

Albertine  had  likewise  resigned  herself  to  her  des- 
tiny. She  knew  her  lover  must  die  ;  and  her  piety 
enabled  her  to  find  in  this  dispensation  a  cause  of  thank- 
fulness. By  death  he  would  be  removed  from  a  world 
in  which  he  never  could  redeem  his  name  from  dis- 
grace— a  world — in  which  temptations  might  again 
overcome  his  new-born  virtue.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if 
such  an  expiation  of  his  guilt  purified  and  exalted  her 
passion. 

Father  Theodore  deeming  it  expedient  to  communi- 
cate to  Count  Lanesky  their  surmises  respecting  the 
bandit's  origin — the  ring  was  despatched  by  an  express 
to  him,  at  Berlin,  with  a  letter  containing  all  that  the 
father  had  learned  from  Black  Fritz,  regarding  his  early 
recollections.  These  vv^ere  such  as  to  induce  the  count 
to  set  out  instantly  for  Prague.  In  the  mean  time  the 
prisoner  was  prepared  for  the  probable  elucidation  of 
his  birth.  Pride,  grief,  and  remorse  set  fire  to  his 
brain.     On  the  eve  of  terminating  a  miserable  existence, 


44  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

by  a  violent  and  ignominious  death — to  find  himself  in 
possession  of  all  the  blessings  that  could  have  given  va- 
lue to  life,  was  a  trial  too  severe  for  a  frame,  already 
disordered  by  suffering  and  confinement  in  the  impure 
atmosphere  of  a  dungeon.  He  was  seized  in  the  night 
by  a  brain  fever  ;  and  the  good  monk  anticipated  with 
feelings  allied  1o  satisfaction,  the  probability  of  his  be- 
ing spared  by  a  natural  death,  the  dreadful  doom  that 
awaited  him. 

On  a  representation  of  the  prisoner's  case.  Father  The- 
odore obtained  his  removal  to  a  more  wholesome  cham- 
ber. His  fetters  were  also  taken  off,  and  a  physician 
called  to  attend  him.  Contrary  to  ail  expectations,  the 
patient's  youth,  and  a  constitution  unimpaired  by  in- 
temperance, carried  him  through  the  disease.  With  a 
prostration  of  physical  strength  proportioned  to  the 
violence  of  the  fever,  expired  the  last  embers  of  his 
wild  and  intractable  spirit.  When  his  senses  returned, 
and  he  was  once  more  capable  of  collecting  his  thoughts, 
he  motioned  to  the  friendly  monk,  who  had  nursed 
him  with  parental  care,  to  sit  down  by  his  bed.  <<I 
see  it  now — holy  father,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  scarcely 
articulate  from  weakness,  "I  see  it  all  now.  Oh  !  par- 
don the  anxiety  and  sorrow  I  have  caused  you." 

"  And  what  seest  thou,  my  son  ?"  inquired  Father 
Theodore. 

'^  Oh,  father!  I  see  my  way  out  of  the  dark  labyrinth 
of  despair  in  which  I  have  been  wandering.  I  feel  that 
God  has  in  mercy  bestowed  upon  me  all  that  can  con- 
stitute the  happiness  of  man  on  earth,  at  the  moment 
when  I  am  about  to  leave  it — that  I  may  atone  for  my 
crimes,  by  resigning  with  a  willing  spirit,  the  blessings 
by  which  I  could  be  reconciled  to  life,  even  under  the 
contumely  of  a  world  less  merciful  than  its  master." 

The  monk  gladly  encouraged  a  notion  which  seemed 
to  afford  consolation  to  his  penitent,  who  soon  after  fell 
into  a  deep  and  tranquil  slumber,  from  which  he 
awaked  refreshed  in  body  and  mind. 

Next  day,  whilst  Father  Theodore  was  with  Alber- 
tine,  to  whom  he  had  gone  to  report  the  state  of  his 
patient,  a  noble-looking  man,  somewhat  passed  the  me- 
ridian of  life,  was  ushered  in,  whose  form  and  features 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  45 

bore  so  remarkable  a  resemblance  to  the  bandit,  that 
both  Albertine  and  her  companion  started.  The  for- 
mer advanced  towards  him,  exclaiming — '^  Good  hea- 
vens! Count  Lanesky!'^ 

He  looked  surprised,  and  Albertine  coloured  as  she 
made  her  obeisance. 

*^  I  regret  to  find  that  my  friend.  Count  Darmstein, 
is  from  home,'^  said  the  visiter.  *^  How  soon  may  I 
hope  for  his  return  V^ 

*'  My  uncle  has  been  absent  for  some  days  on  business, 
but  he  will  return  to-morrow.  In  the  mean  time  I  shall 
be  happy  to  render  his  house  as  agreeable  to  you  as  possi- 
ble." 

She  presented  Father  Theodore  to  the  count,  who  took 
the  monk's  hand  without  speaking.  Then,  turning  to  Al- 
bertine,, asked  how  she  came  to  know  him  at  first  sight? 
She  hesitated,  and  her  voice  faltered  as  she  replied, 

*^I  was  struck  by  a  singular  resemblance  to — to — 
one — " 

"  To  Black  Fritz,  the  robber,  you  would  say  ?"  inter- 
rupted the  count,  abruptly.  "Is  it  then  so?  shall  the 
recovery  of  a  long-lamented  son,  serve  only  to  bring 
dishonour  on  my  name!'' 

Father  Theodore  attempted  to  calm  the  asperity  of 
the  unfortunate  parent,  by  describing  the  penitence  and 
resignation  of  him  whom  they  supposed  his  son.  While 
he  spoke,  his  auditor's  countenance  exhibited  a  violent 
struggle  between  pride  and  grief  He  made  no  reply, 
but  walked  out  on  the  balcony,  from  whence  he  return- 
ed in  a  few  minutes,  and  addressed  himself  to  Albertine. 

"  In  speaking  of  Count  Darmstein  just  now,  you  cal- 
led him  uncle  ;  you  are  then  the  daughter  of  his  sister, 
Adelaide  Baroness  Branow  ?" 

She  bowed,  and  he  continued  with  suppressed  vehe- 
mence of  tone  and  manner.  '*  Know  you  then,  young 
lady,  the  lot  once  assigned  to  you  ?  Know  you  that  you 
were  betrothed  to  my  son  at  your  birth  ?  To  him,  per- 
haps, whom  you  must  now  regard  with  detestation  and 
abhorrence  !" 

Albertine's  lips  trembled,  her  eyes  filled,  and  she 
answered  with  a  low  but  energetic  accent — '*  No,  no,  I 
do  not — cannot  abhor  him." 


46  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

*^  How!  what  say  you  ?  a  bandit  ?  a  murderer  ?  a  con- 
demned felon  ?" 

"To  me,  Sir,  he  has  ever  shown  himself  noble  and 
generous.  It  is  not  for  me  to  judge  him  farther."  She 
wiped  away  the  tears  she  had  been  unable  to  repress  ; 
and  related  the  particulars  of  her  connection  with  Adrian 
from  the  day  when  she  saw  him  save  the  child  from 
drowning  in  theMoldau  to  their  interview  in  the  prison. 
Lanesky  heard  her  with  visible  emotion,  but  he  kept 
his  looks  bent  on  the  ground,  as  if  unwilling  to  betray 
the  feelings  which  agitated  him.  When  she  had  done 
speaking,  he  rose  with  a  desperate  effort  at  self-command, 
which  increased  the  harshness  of  his  manner. 

"  If  it  be  so,  if  I  am  doomed  to  find  my  lost  Adrian 
in  the  person  of  a  robber,  let  me  see  him  at  once.  Any 
further  prolongation  of  suspense  would  be  intolerable: 
reverend  father,  let  us  go,  and  you,  Lady  Albertine, 
will  you  not  accompany  us?'^ 

The  count's  carriage  conveyed  them  in  a  few  minutes 
to  the  prison.  Tliey  were  introduced  into  a  large 
irregularly-shaped  room,  usually  allotted  to  state  prison- 
ers, but  to  which  Adrian  had  been  removed  on  account 
of  his  illness.  It  was  scantily  furnished  ;  but  the  win- 
dows, though  strongly  grated,  admitted  the  cheering  sun- 
beams. The  door  was  situated  in  a  deep  recess,  where, 
apprehensive  lest  her  presence  should  embarrass  the 
prisoner,  Albertine  preferred  remaining  an  unseen  wit- 
ness of  the  interview.  Adrian  was  seated  at  a  table, 
deeply  intent  upon  a  devotional  book.  It  was  easy  to 
perceive  how  much  he  had  suffered,  by  the  ghastly 
paleness  of  his  features,  and  the  emaciated  hand  which 
he  extended  to  Father  Theodore,  as  he  slowly  rose  to 
receive  him. 

"My  son!"  said  the  monk,  "  I  have  brought  with 
me  a  gentleman,  commissioned  by  Count  Lanesky,  to 
hear  from  your  own  lips  what  you  have  already  com- 
municated to  me  relative  to  your  earliest  reminiscences." 
Adrian  bowed  respectfully;  but  the  strong  emotion 
that  shook  his  feeble  frame,  compelled  him  to  sit  down. 

The  count's  full,  dark,  and  searching  eye,  rested  on 
his  features  for  a  minute,  and  then  he  proceeded  to  ques- 
tion him  with  forced  and  stern  composure:  the  prisoner's 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  47 

answers  were  mild  and  explicit.  Towards  the  end  of  Ihe 
examination,  the  conflicting  passions  in  the  breast  of  the 
interrogator  became  more  and  more  apparent.  ^<  One 
more  proof,"  said  he,  *  is  wanting — one  only  to  con- 
firm a  wretched  father's  shame.'' 

A  deep  but  momentary  flush  sufi'used  the  prisoner's 
pallid  countenance,   leaving  it  more  ashy  than  before. 

<*  The  lost  son  of  Count  Lanesky  had  a  scar  on  the 
right  temple,  in  consequence  of  a  fall  in  his  fourth  year." 

Adrian's  trembling  hand  lifted  the  rich  curls  that 
covered  the  decisive  mark. 

<*  Then  he  is  my  son  !"  shrieked  the  count,  with  an 
accent  of  despair,  and  striking  liis  clenched  hand  against 
his  forehead — turned  away  and  retreated  into  the  embra- 
sure of  a  window. 

^*My  father!  oh  my  father!"  cried  Adrian,  starting 
up  and  extending  his  arms  ;  but  he  reeled  and  would 
have  fallen,  but  for  the  friendly  support  of  the  monk. 
Albertine  rushed  from  her  concealment,  and  throwing 
her  arms  round  her  fainting  lover,  exclaimed  in  heart- 
thrilling  tones,  <«Let  thy  cruel  father — let  Heaven  it- 
self reject  thee — thou  only  are  my  betrothed,  and 
never  will  I  forsake  thee!" 

The  prisoner's  languid  eyes  beamed  for  an  instant 
with  grateful  affection,  whilst  the  lovely  enthusiast 
spoke ;  but  they  closed  with  her  last  word,  and  he 
sunk  without  sense,  motion,  or  sign  of  life  into  Father 
Theodore's  arms. 

They  laid  him  on  his  bed,  chafed  his  cold  hands,  and 
bathed  his  pallid  brow,  in  vain.  Count  Lanesky  slow- 
ly turned  towards  the  group.  The  sight  of  his  son's 
lifeless  body  in  the  care  of  strangers,  seemed  at  once  to 
crush  the  aristocratic  pride  which  warred  with  every 
softer  feeling.  He  threw  himself  on  his  knees  by  the 
insensible  Adrian,  clasped  him  to  his  heart,  and  said, 
while  large  tears  flowed  down  his  proud  and  stern  coun- 
tenance— ^' Still  thou  art  my  son!  the  only  being  I  have 
left  to  love!"  The  accents  of  parental  tenderness 
seemed  to  recall  the  suspended  faculties  of  the  prisoner  ; 
and  after  a  time  he  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  con- 
verse with  his  father  on  their  strange  and  melancholy 
position. 


48  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

At  the  count's  desire,  Adrian  gave  him  a  succinct 
account  of  the  principal  events  of  his  life,  requesting  to 
be  allowed  to  suppress  all  details  of  the  guilty  deeds  for 
which  he  was  about  to  suffer  ;  solemnly  declaring  that 
from  the  hour  which  brought  him  acquainted  with  Al- 
bertine,  he  had  shunned  every  occasion  of  shedding 
blood,  and  had  resolved  to  seize  the  first  opportunity  of 
detaching  himself  from  his  fierce  associates,  and  in  ano- 
ther climate  to  obtain  honourable  fame,  or  die  in  the 
pursuit. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  prisoner's  narrative,  the 
heart-stricken  father  remained  silent.  He  was  revolv- 
ing in  his  mind  the  possibility  of  obtaining  the  pardon 
of  his  son,  through  his  personal  interest  with  the  em- 
peror. He  proposed  to  set  out  immediately  for  Vienna; 
but  Adrian  resolutely  opposed  the  measure.  It  was 
too  late — he  was  too  well  known — and  all  the  lustre  of 
his  father's  name  would  be  insufficient  to  efface  the  in- 
famy his  crimes  had  brought  upon  it.  Humble  sub- 
mission to  the  fate  awarded  him  by  his  country's  laws, 
was  the  only  atonement  he  could  now  make  for  having 
defied  them.  Besides,  how  could  he  suffer  his  rank  to 
procure  for  him  the  impunity  which  would  not  be  ex- 
tended to  his  com.rades. 

The  gaoler  now  entered,  and  announced  the  hour 
for  closing  the  prison  gates  for  the  night.  Lanesky 
accompanied  Albertine  home,  where  her  uncle  soon  af- 
ter arrived.  He  expressed  equal  joy  and  astonishment 
at  the  sight  of  his  old  friend  ;  an  explanation  ensued 
of  the  motives  which  had  induced  the  latter  to  visit 
Prague.  At  first,  disappointment  and  vexation  pre- 
dominated in  the  breast  of  Count  Darmstein,  at  the  de- 
struction of  long-cherished  schemes,  for  securing,  as  he 
had  believed,  the  happiness  of  Albertine,  as  well  as 
that  of  his  darling  Frederick.  But  though  somewhat 
tenacious  of  his  purposes,  Count  Darmstein  was  essen- 
tially kind,  equitable,  and  religious;  so  that  reflection 
speedily  brought  him  to  submit  his  own  will  to  the 
conviction  that 

"  There's  a  divinity  who  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough-hew  therei  how  we  will." 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  49 

He  could  not  deny  the  legality  of  the  first  contract, 
which  bound  his  niece  to  Adrian  ;  neillier  could  he  alto- 
gether condemn  a  passion,  the  strength  and  truth  of 
which  had  overcome  such  apparently  invincible  obsta- 
cles, in  order  to  efi'ect  their  predestined  union. 

The  order  for  the  execution  of  the  banditti  having 
arrived  from  Vienna,  their  doom  was  fixed  for  the 
third  day  at  noon.  It  was  Father  Theodore  who  com- 
municated the  intelligence  to  Albertine,  Her  fortitude 
did  not  forsake  her  yet — no  flush  crimsoned  her  pale 
cheek — no  tear  dimmed  her  eye,  as  it  glanced  upwards 
with  a  look  of  blended  resignation  and  enthusiasm. 
A  slight  contraction  of  the  lip,  and  the  cold  damp  fin- 
gers which  tremulously  pressed  her  uncle's  hand,  were, 
all  that  revealed  her  feelings  when  she  asked  his  per- 
mission to  pass  the  intervening  days  with  Adrian,  un- 
der the  protection  of  her  confessor.  He  consented, 
and  moved  by  the  distress  of  his  friend,  even  offered  to 
accompany  her  himself  ;  in  the  hope  that  this  show  of 
sympathy  might  soothe  the  feelings  of  the  unhappy 
father,  though  he  could  not  yet  bring  his  mind  to  feel 
in  perfect  charity  with  the  disturber  of  his  peace,  both 
at  home  and  abroad. 

But  this  last  spark  of  resentment  was  quenched  by 
the  sight  of  its  object.  By  the  customary  indulgence 
shown  to  condemned  criminals,  Adrian's  chains  had 
been  taken  off",  and  a  plain  suit  of  black  substituted  for 
the  torn  uniform  which  he  had  worn  in  the  dungeon. 
His  wasted,  but  still  majestic  form,  and  a  deportment 
where  native  loftiness  of  mind  contrasted  with  the 
touching  humility  of  penitence  ;  his  melancholy  smile, 
and  the  deep  melody  of  the  voice  in  which  he  bid 
them  welcome,  effected  so  sudden  a  change  in  the  feel- 
ings of  Count  Darmstein,  that  he  opened  his  arms  to 
the  criminal,  and  blessed  him  as  a  son. 

How  that  day  and  the  next  were  passed  by  these 
individuals,  needs  no  description,  for  such  as  have 
looked  on  the  death-bed  of  their  nearest  and  dearest 
friend. 

Albertine  betrayed  no  weakness,  and  she  alone  might 
know  the  work  of  destruction  that  was  going  silently 
Vol.  n.— E 


50  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS  OF  GERMAN  LIFE. 

on  within  her.  Her  step  was  firm  as  she  slowly  fol- 
lowed the  afflicted  parent  out  of  the  presence  of  him, 
for  whom,  or  with  whom,  she  was  equally  ready  to 
live  or  die.  The  door  of  the  prison  closed  heavily  be- 
hind the  mourners,  and  Albertine  still  felt  the  pressure 
of  the  last  embrace,  when  she  stopped,  struck  her  hand 
convulsively  against  her  heart,  whilst  her  features  sud- 
denly became  contracted,  and  before  her  uncle  could 
catch  her  in  his  arms,  she  fell  with  her  face  on  the 
pavement  of  the  court.     She  was  carried  home  senseless. 

The  government  was  anxious  to  impress  this  act  of 
severity  on  the  minds  of  the  people  by  every  possible 
solemnity  ;  the  church  bells  tolled  as  for  the  dead,  and 
minute  guns  fired  from  sunrise,  to  announce  the  last 
hour  of  the  robbers.  With  a  heavy  heart  and  wet  eyes 
Father  Theodore  performed  the  last  sad  duty  of  accom- 
panying his  penitent  to  the  place  of  execution.  Adrian 
was  calm  and  collected.  He  had  often  fearlessly  en- 
countered death  on  the  field,  why  should  he  shrink 
from  it  now,  when  it  appeared  to  him  as  a  haven  of 
rest,  where  his  soul  would  find  pardon  and  peace. 
Weaned  from  all  earthly  feelings,  he  walked  erect  and 
firm  through  the  gazing  multitude,  who  loudly  ex- 
pressed their  pity  and  admiration  for  the  youth  and 
noble  bearing  of  the  criminal. 

Arrived  at  the  scafibld,  he  embraced  his  fellow-suf- 
ferers ;  and,  receiving  the  last  benediction  of  his  ghost- 
ly father,  he  bowed  his  head  upon  the  block — the  axe 
fell — and  the  bandit  stood  in  the  presence  of  him  who 
alone  beholdeth  the  thoughts  as  well  as  the  deeds  of 
men. 

Father  Theodore  turned  from  the  bloody  scene  to 
fulfil  the  last  request  of  his  friend,  by  delivering  to 
Albertine  the  scarf  (her  gift)  which  had  bound  her 
lover's  eyes  ;   but 

"  That  heart  had  burst — that  eye  was  closed — 
Yea,  closed  before  his  own!" 


THE 


/ 


OLD     STAROSTY 


THE 


OLD    STAROSTY.* 


The  year  1796,  the  first  of  Napoleon's  victorious  career, 
brought  with  it  many  a  night  of  terror  for  both  Ger- 
mans and  Italians.  I  had  just  completed  my  studies  at 
the  University  of  Jena,  my  native  city,  and  taken  the 
degree  of  Doctor  Utriusque  Juris,  and  consequently 
thought  myself  qualified  to  decide  all  the  differences  of 
the  European  potentates  with  the  French  republic, 
without  recurring  to  the  sword;  (a  species  of  argument 
which  I  have  always  held  in  aversion)  would  they  have 
been  content  to  appeal  to  the  combined  wisdom  of  Gro- 
tius,  Puffendorf,  and  the  learned  Dr  Daniel  Lammherz 
— in  which  opinion  I  was  confirmed  by  my  mother. 
My  friends  obtained  for  me  an  iippointment  as  Commis- 
sary of  Justice  (the  principal  law  officer  of  the  crown 
in  provincial  towns)  in  New  East  Prussia. 

It  was  no  small  luck  as  well  as  honour  for  a  Jena 
student  of  two-and-twenty  to  be  thus  entrusted  with 
the  sword  and  balance  of  justice  for  the  government 
of  several  thousand  souls — and  much  as  I  respect 
my  mother's  opinion  on  such  matters,  I  have  since 
been  led  to  believe  that  I  ov/ed  this  flattering  ap- 
pointment more  to  the  fall  of  *'  Warsaw's  last  cham- 
pion," and  the  creation  of  a  New  East  Prussia,  where 
places  were  usually  at  discount,  than  to  my  own  tran- 
scendent merits.  I  shall  take  this  opportunity  of  men- 
tioning that  our  late  King  Frederick  William,  of  blessed 

•  The  government  house. 
VOL.  II. — E  2 


54  LIGHTS   AND    SHADOWS 

memory,  was  blamed  by  many  persons  for  having  aided 
and  abetted  the  act  of  dismembering  and  devouring  Po- 
land, but  as  every  evil  produces  some  good,  this  trifling 
deviation  from  the  line  of  right,  gaVe  bread  to  thousands 
of  Prussian  poets,  who  would  otherwise  have  starved. 
Throughout  nature,  the  destruction  of  one  is  the  life  of 
another.  The  herring  is  destined  for  the  whale's  belly, 
while  the  entire  animal  and  vegetable  worlds,  and  even 
the  mineral  (undigestible  as  it  may  be),  are  all  made  to 
contribute  to  the  support  of  human  existence. 

Handsomely  provided  with  shirts,  money,  and  ma- 
ternal benedictions,  I  set  out  for  my  brilliant  destination 
in  New  East  Prussia,  a  province,  of  which,  geographers 
now  know  no  more  than  if  it  had  started  up  and  vanish- 
ed again  at  the  stroke  of  an  enchanter's  wand — and  yet 
truly,  it  was  no  fairy  land  either.  I  will  not  weary  the 
reader  with  a  long  detail  of  my  travels. 

All-bountiful  nature  allots  to  every  creature  its  own 
element,  in  which  only  it  can  exist.  The  fish  dies  in 
the  air;  and  the  Polish  Jew  in  the  perfumed  atmosphere 
of  a  boudoir — then  1  arrived  one  evening,  a  little  before 
sunset,  at  Brczwezcisl,  a  little  town  of  a  cheerful  friend- 
ly aspect,  in  spite  of  its  dingy,  ill-built  houses,  unpaved 
streets,  and  dirty  inhabitants.  But  a  sooty-faced  chim- 
ney-sweeper may  look  as  gay  and  good  humoured  as 
the  most  elegant  opera  dancer.  Perhaps  Brczwezcisl 
made  a  more  favourable  impression  on  me  at  first,  be- 
cause 1  had  heard  its  deformities  exaggerated.  Perhaps, 
too,  the  unutterable  name  of  the  place,  which  had  al- 
most cost  me  a  lock  jaw  the  first  time  I  attempted  to 
pronounce  it,  might  have  contributed  to  inspire  certain 
feelings  of  awe  and  apprehension.  Names  exercise 
great  influence  over  our  conceptions  of  unseen  objects — 
and  as  the  good  and  bad  of  this  world  dwells  less  in 
things  themselves  than  in  our  ideas  of  them,  life  may 
be  embellished  by  a  melodious  combination  of  syllables. 

My  awe  of  the  New  East  Prussian  theatre  of  my  juri- 
dical career,  may  also  have  been  increased  by  the  cir- 
cumstance of  my  never  having  lost  sight  of  the  chim- 
neys and  spire*  of  my  native  city  before  this  journey. 
And  although  I  knew,  from  various  geographical  works, 
that  the  feeders  on  human  flesh  inhabited  tolerably  dis- 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.    ^  55 

tant  parts  of  the  world,  yet  I  continually  wondered, 
and  thanked  my  stars  that  I  was  not  murdered  in  tra- 
versing; some  of  those  dreary  and  desert  tracts  of  coun- 
try, where  I  mig;ht  have  been  shot  a  thousand  times, 
without  a  probability  of  my  sudden  disappearance  from 
the  earth  being  ever  accounted  for.  Truly  we  never 
acquire  just  confidence  in  our  fellow  creatures,  till  we 
have  mingled  as  a  stranger  amongst  them.  Misanthro- 
pistsarenarrowminded,andselfishnessisa  malady  of  the 
soul,  increased,  and  sometimes  engendered,  by  constant- 
ly living  on  one  spot ;  and  to  cure  it,  we  should  travel. 
Change  of  air  is  as  good  for  the  mind  as  for  the  body. 

My  heart  beat  quicker  as  I  caught  the  first  glimpse  of 
Brczvvezcisl.  It  seemed  to  lie  upon  the  plain  like  a  con- 
fused heap  of  black  mud;  but  Paris  and  Berlin,  with  all 
their  splendid  palaces,  probably  look  no  better  to  the 
aeronaut  who  hovers  over  them.  Here  was  the  object 
of  my  journey,  the  commencement  of  my  professional 
career,  and  perhaps  too,  the  end  of  it,  should  the  Poles, 
so  lately  transformed  into  New  East  Prussians,  take  it 
into  their  heads  to  massacre  us,  their  countrymen  of  the 
west.  I  went  there  an  utter  stranger,  knowing  no  one 
except  a  former  college  associate,  named  Burkhardt, 
who  had  lately  been  appointed  receiver  general  of  the 
taxes  at  Brczwezcisl,  and  to  whom  I  had  written  to  an- 
nounce my  arrival,  and  request  him  to  prepare  a  lodg- 
ing for  my  reception. 

This  Burkhardt,  who  had  formerly  been  rather  more 
than  indifferent  to  me,  and  whose  society  I  had  even 
avoided  at  my  mother's  request,  because  he  united  the 
qualities  of  sot,  gambler,  and  fighter — rose  rapidly  in 
my  esteem  and  friendship,  the  nearer  I  approached 
Brczwezcisl.  He  was  my  only  acquaintance  in  a  strange 
and  barbarous  Polish  town,  and  1  felt  for  him  as  one 
should  do  for  a  companion  in  shipwreck,  cast  by  the 
waves  on  the  same  desert  shore. 

I  don't  consider  myself  as  superstitious;  but  still  I 
cannot  help  now  and  then  believing  in  prognostics,  and 
when  none  present  themselves  naturally,  1  make  them. 
I  resolved  then  to  take  particular  notice  of  the  first  per- 
son I  should  meet  at  the  town  gale — and  that  a  man 
should  be  the  harbinger  of  evil,  and  a  younrg  maiden  of 


56  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

good.  I  had  scarcely  determined  this  point,  when  I 
looked  up,  and  found  that  I  was  within  a  hundred  yards 
of  the  gate,  under  the  arch  of  which  I  perceived  what 
I  believed  to  be,  a  young  and  well-formed  female  figure. 
*'  Lucky  dog,"  I  exclaimed.  I  could  have  jumped  out 
of  the  old  crazy  vehicle,  and  gratefully  thrown  myself 
at  the  feet  of  my  good  genius.  I  wiped  the  dust  from 
my  spy-glass,  (for  I  am  near  sighted)  and  examined  her 
attentively.  On  coming  near,  I  discovered  that  my  ge- 
nius was  tall  and  meagre,  with  the  t'eatures  of  a  Kalmuck, 
and  the  complexion  of  a  death's  head.  I  could  scarcely 
believe  my  eyes — again  I  rubbed  my  glass,  and  saw  the 
damsel,  who,  no  doubt  suspected  that  I  was  a  Prussian, 
thrust  out  her  tongue  at  me  with  a  gesture  of  derision 
and  abhorrence.  1  took  off  my  hat  in  return,  and  the 
lady,  as  unprepared  for  my  politeness,  as  I  had  been  for 
her  discourtesy,  nodded  her  head,  and  laughed  immo- 
derately. My  postilion  drew  up  to  an  inn,  over  the 
door  of  which,  the  newly  painted  and  gilt  Prussian 
eagle,  had  been  bespattered  with  mud  by  the  juvenile 
patriots  of  Brczwezcisl,  two  or  three  of  whom  were 
amusing  themselves  with  pelting  it. 


THE  OLD   STAROSTY. 

I  INQUIRED  civilly  of  the  postmaster  where  my  friend, 
the  receiver-general,  Burkhardt,  lived  :  the  man  seem- 
ed not  to  hear  me,  for  he  returned  no  answer  ;  however, 
as  he  entered  into  discourse  with  a  letter-carrier,  who 
was  going  by,  I  concluded  he  was  not  afflicted  with 
deafness,  but  with  the  consequential  impertinence  of  a 
fellow  who  knows  that  your  convenience  depends  on  his 
will  and  pleasure.  After  the  sixteenth  inquiry,  he  turned 
to  me,  and  asked  gruffly  what  I  wanted  if  I  did  not  want 
post-horses?  I  repeated  my  question,  for  the  seventeenth 
time,  with  true  Berlin  suavity  of  tone  and  manner. 

*<  At  the  old  Starosty,"  growled  the  postmaster,  puf- 
fing a  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke  in  my  face. 

"  Pardon  me  for  giving  so  much  trouble,"  I  returned 
in  the  same  tone,  ''  but  1  must  beg  you  to  inform  me 
where  I  am  to  find  the  old  Starosty." 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  57 

*'  I  have  no  time,"  quoth  the  postmaster.  '<  Here, 
Peter,  go  with  him." 

This  command  was  addressed  to  a  ragged  hostler,  who 
had  appeared  to  be  lying  fast  asleep  on  the  stone  bench 
at  the  stable-door.  He  started  up,  shook  himself  like  a 
dog,  and  jjroceeded  down  the  street,  without  once  look- 
ing back  to  see  whether  I  followed  him.  Notwith- 
standing my  natural  gentleness,  I  was  provoked  at  heart 
by  this  brutal  treatment.  I  clenched  my  hands  in  my 
coat  pockets,  and  swore  internally  that  if  ever  the  post- 
master fell  into  the  claws  of  justice,  whose  minister  I 
had  the  honour — and  began  to  think,  the  misfortune — 
to  be  at  Brczwezcisl,  I  should  make  him  remember  his 
insolent  behaviour. 

My  conductor  Peter  was  a  Pole,  who  understood  but 
little  German,  and  spoke  less.  My  conversation  with 
him  was  at  once  so  confused  and  terrific,  tliat  I  shall  re- 
member it  as  long  as  I  live.  He  was  an  ill-looking,  one- 
eyed  vagabond,  with  a  sharp  yellow  face,  bristly  black 
hair,  and  a  beard  of  the  same  colour,of  a  month's  growth 
at  least. 

a  My  good  friend,'^  said  I,  as  I  waded  slowly  after 
him  through  the  deep  mud,  '« do  you  know  the  Receiver- 
General  Burkhardt,  of  Jena  ?" 

*<  The  old  Siarosty!"  answered  Peter. 

"But  do  you  understand,  my  good  fellow,  that  it  is 
to  this  Burkhardt  that  I  wish  to  be  conducted?" 

<<The  old  Starosty!"  repeated  Peter. 

**  But  what  am  I  to  do  in  your  old  Starosty  ?" 

*<Die  !"  said  the  guide. 

**  The  devil!  I  have  no  such  intention,  I  can  tell 
you,  friend  Peter." 

*' Stark  dead — die  !"  said  Peter. 

**But  why  ?  what  have  I  done,"  said  I,  beginning  to 
feel  uneasy. 

"  Prussian!  no  Pole!"  replied  he. 

<«ButI  am  a  Prussian,"  said  I. 

<«  Yes,I  know." 

<<  Why,  then,  die  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

**  So — and  so — and  so,"  said  the  fellow,  with  the  ac- 
tion of  stabbing  with  a  dagger. 

Then  he  pointed  to  his  breast,  groaned,  and  rolled  his 


58  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

eyes  horribly,  as  if  he  was  in  the  agonies  of  death.  My 
uneasiness  increased  as  the  discourse  continued. 

The  man  was  clearly  in  his  senses  ;  he  appeared  to 
understand  what  I  said,  and  it  was  not  likely  that  the 
postmaster  should  keep  a  mad  hostler. 

**  Perhaps  we  do  not  quite  understand  one  another, 
my  good  friend,"  I  resumed — <*What  do  you  mean 
by  dying?" 

<^  Make  dead,"  replied  he,  with  a  wild  staring  look. 

<«  Make  dead  !  Do  you  mean  that  I  shall  be  mur- 
dered?" 

''  At  night,"  said  Peter. 

**  At  night  !     This  night!"  asked  I  anxiously. 

<<  Poles — not  Prussians,"  was  Peter's  reply. 

I  shook  my  head,  and  was  silent.  It  was  clear  we 
did  not  understand  one  another,  and  yet  there  was  some- 
thing very  terrifyingin  his  words  to  one  well  aware  of  the 
hatred  of  the  Poles  towards  the  Prussians. 

I  had  heard  of  several  instances  of  my  countrymen 
having  been  assassinated,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  the 
fellow  went  to  warn  me  out  of  humanity,  or  that  his 
patriotic  insolence  led  him  to  betray  his  knowledge  of 
some  plot  to  murder  all  the  Prussians  in  the  town.  The 
more  I  reflected,  the  more  probable  this  supposition  ap- 
peared, and  I  determined  to  communicate  my  suspicions 
to  my  friend  Burkhardt.  In  the  mean  time,  we  arrived 
at  the  '^  Old  Siarosty,"  which  had  so  much  perplexed  me. 
It  was  an  old  high  building,  of  dark-coloured  stone,  in  a 
back  street.  I  remarked  that  several  persons  who  pass- 
ed by  it  kept  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  looking 
up  at  the  windows  of  this  gloomy  prison-like  abode, 
with  a  peculiar  expression  of  curiosity.  My  guide  only 
pronounced  the  words  «'01d  Starosty,"  with  an  ex- 
pression of  terror  in  his  countenance,  and  pointing  to 
the  door,  took  to  his  heels,  without  saluting  me,  or  de- 
manding remuneration  for  his  trouble. 

Thus  far,  my  entrance  into  Brczwezcisl  had  ofiered 
nothing  very  prepossessing.  The  first  persons  I  had 
encountered,  the  uncourteous  fair  one  at  the  gate, 
the  ungracious  postmaster,  and  the  unintelligible  lout 
who  had  just  left  me,  took  considerably  from  the  plea- 
sure which  my  appointment  had  originally  given  me. 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  59 

I  congratulated  myself,  however,  on  being  about  to  see 
and  converse  with  one  human  being,  at  least,  with 
whom  I  had  formerly  breathed  the  same  air.  It  is  true 
that  Burkhardt  had  not  enjoyed  the  best  reputation  at 
Jena  ;  but  men  alter  with  their  situations  ;  for  what  is 
character,  but  the  result  of  circumstances  ?  Fear  some- 
times lends  to  the  weak  a  giant's  strength.  On  the 
field  of  battle  the  coward  becomes  a  hero,  while, 
amongst  women  Hercules  relinquished  his  club  for  a 
distaff.  But,  granting  that  the  receiver-general's  prin- 
ciples had  hitherto  been  somewhat  lax,  yet  the  fact  of 
his  being  my  countryman  and  old  acquaintance,  varnish- 
ed over  his  demerits,  nay,  almost  transformed  his  vices 
into  virtues.  His  quarrelsome  disposition,  in  particular, 
and  his  reputation  as  a  duellist,  was,  under  my  actual 
circumstances,  a  positive  recommendation  ;  for,  be  it 
said  in  confidence,  the  soft,  modest,  timid  character,  so 
often  and  highly  commended  by  my  mamma,  was  little 
fitted  to  encounter  the  perils  of  a  popular  commotion. 
In  fact,  there  are  virtues  which,  in  some  situations 
would  be  faults,  and  faults  which  in  others  would  be 
virtues.  Things  are  not  the  same  at  all  times,  or  in  all 
cases,  although  no  real  change  may  have  taken  place  in 
their  natures. 

On  entering  the  old  Starosty,  as  it  was  called,  I  was  at 
a  loss  where  to  find  my  dearly  beloved  friend  Burk- 
hardt. The  creaking  hinges  of  the  lofty  door  echoed 
throughthespaciousbuildingwithahollow,empty  sound; 
yet  not  a  living  soul  appeared.  1  ascended  the  broad 
stone  staircase,  expecting  to  find  somebody  to  direct  me. 

On  the  first  landing-place  I  saw  a  door  on  the  left,  at 
which  I  knocked  very  gently,  but  no  friendly  voice 
answered,  '^  Come  in."  1  knocked  louder  ; — all  still  as 
the  grave.  I  grew  impatient  ; — my  friend  became 
every  moment  dearer  to  my  heart.  1  tried  the  lock  ; — 
it  gave  way.  I  entered,  and  beheld  a  cofiin  on  tressels 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  ;  accounting  satisfactorily, 
though  not  agreeably,  for  my  having  knocked  so  long  in 
vain. 

I  am,  by  nature,  respectful  to  the  living,  and  still  more 
so  to  the  dead.  I  was  about  to  retire  as  gently  as  possi- 
ble, when  I  caught  a  view  of  the  features  of  a  dead  man, 


60  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

which  I  instantly  recognized  for  my  friend,  the  receiver- 
general,  who  had  paid  the  last  tribute  of  mortality. 
There  he  lay,  reckless  of  dice  and  champagne,  as  stiff, 
solemn,  strange,  and  unconcerned,  about  tlie  external 
world,  as  if  he  had  never  shared  an  interest  or  a  pleasure 
with  his  fellow-men.  Struck  to  the  heart,  I  glided  soft- 
ly from  the  chamber,  and  leaned  pensively  on  the  heavy 
stone  balustrade  without.  Daylight  was  rapidly  fading, 
and  its  last  rays  glimmered  faintly  through  the  narrow 
panes  of  the  dust-coated  windows  of  the  staircase  ;  not 
a  step — not  a  voice,  gave  me  reason  to  believe  there 
was  another  living  creature  beside  myself  in  the  house. 
The  sound  of  my  own  breathing,  and  the  ringing  of  my 
boot  heals  upon  the  granite  floor  as  I  shifted  my  position, 
became  oppressive  to  me.  I  began  to  feel  the  dread  and 
repugnance  of  the  living  to  the  dead,  and  wondered  how 
I  could  have  been  led  by  meditative  disposition  to  look 
so  long  upon  the  corpse.  My  helpless  and  embarrassing 
situation  now  stared  me  in  the  face  ;  a  hundred  weary 
German  miles  from  my  native  home,  and  from  my  mo- 
ther's tender  care  ;  in  a  strange  and,  what  was  worse,  a 
hostile  town,  whose  barbarous  name  I  never  heard  till 
I  was  appointed  to  the  task  of  Prussianizing  its  inha- 
bitants, and  my  only  fiiend  and  acquaintance  returned 
to  the  dust  from  whence  he  came,  without  afibrding me 
the  counsel  and  comfort  for  which  1  had  depended  on 
him. 

The  questions  now  arose,  where  should  I  lay  my  head 
that  night?  How  should  I  find  the  lodging  which  the 
deceased  had  hired  for  me  ? 

While  revolving  these  matters  in  my  perplexed  and 
anxious  mind,  the  rusty  hinges  of  the  house  door  utter- 
ed a  shriek  so  piercing  and  supernatural,  as  convulsed 
every  nerve  in  m.y  body.  A  man,  who,  as  well  as  I 
could  see  in  the  dusk,  wore  a  shabby  livery,  flew  up 
the  stairs,  three  steps  at  a  time,  stared  at  me  with  open 
mouth,  and  then  began  to  speak.  My  knees  shook  un- 
der me.  The  fellow  talked  on — but  fear  at  first  depri- 
ved me  of  all  power  to  reply  ;  and  then  I  perceived  that 
his  words  were  unintelligible,  and  probably  Polish. 
Seeing  that  I  continued  silent,  he  addressed  me  in  Ger- 
man, the  sound  of  which  restored  my  presence  of  mind. 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  61 

I  told  him  my  name,  my  quality,  and  all  the  circum- 
stances of  my  arrival  in  this  cursed  place,  with  the  un- 
speakable name.  His  tone  became  civil — he  took  off 
his  hat,  and  told  me  with  interminable  circumlocutions, 
that  his  name  was  Lebrecht,  and  that  he  had  been  valet 
and  interpreter  to  the  late  receiver-general  Burkhardt, 
whom  it  had  pleased  Heaven  to  remove  to  a  happier 
existence — that  Burkhardt  had  dined  the  day  before 
with  some  Polish  noblemen.  Heated  by  wine,  a  dispute 
arose  at  cards — ^blows  ensued,  and  Burkhardt  was  stab- 
bed to  the  heart  with  a  knife,  by  one  of  the  company, 
who  immediately  absconded.  The  narrator  assured 
me  that  he  had  been  most  zealously  employed  in  my 
service  by  his  late  master's  desire,  and  that  not  only  an 
apartment,  but  an  excellent  German  cook  had  been,  for 
several  days  past,  prepared  for  my  reception.  He  said 
much  of  the  deadly  hatred  which  the  Poles  took  every 
opportunity  of  manifesting  towards  the  Prussians,  and 
warned  me  against  provoking  their  revenge.  He  con- 
cluded by  saying  that  he  should  himself  return  to  Berlin, 
as  soon  as  his  master  Was  buried. 

Lebrecht  now  prepared  to  conduct  me  to  my  apart- 
ment, which  he  said  was  on  tlie  ground  floor.  I  follow- 
ed him  down  stairs,  where,  after  passing  through  a 
desolate  suite  of  unfurnished  rooms,  we  arrived  at  one, 
in  which  was  an  old-fashioned,  high  testered  bed,  of  faded 
yellow  damask,  half  a  dozen  ponderous  chairs,  the  stuff- 
ing of  which  was  oozing  out  at  all  the  corners  ;  and  a 
heavy  marble  table,  cracked  across,  supported  by  griffins 
which  had  once  been  gilt.  The  walls  were  decorated 
with  the  broad  scroll-patterned  gilt  frame  of  an  absent 
looking  glass,  and  an  ill-conditioned  tapestry,  represent- 
ing the  Judgment  of  Solomon — Daniel  in  the  Lion's 
Den — and  Judith  with  the  bloody  head  of  Holofernes — 
all  larger  than  life. 

I  saw  nothing  very  consolatory  in  all  this,  and  I 
vished  myself  at  the  inn,  however  wretched  a  Polish 
inn  might  be — would  to  Heaven  I  had  gone  thither  at 
once  !  But  partly  from  timidity,  and  partly  to  show 
that  I  was  not  afraid  of  the  neighbourhood  of  a  dead  man 
—1  said  nothing.  Besides,  I  had  no  doubt  that  Lebrecht 
Vol.  H.—F 


62  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

and  the  German  cook  would  keep  me  company  in 
the  Starosty.  Lebrecht  lighied  two  candles  that  stood 
on  the  table  ;  then  volunteered  to  bring  me  some  cold 
meat  and  wine  for  supper,  to  send  for  my  luggage  to 
the  post-house,  and  to  announce  my  arrival  to  the  Ger- 
man cook.  I  felt  as  if  he  was  gone  an  age,  though  ac- 
cording to  my  watch,  he  acquitted  himself  very  expedi- 
tiously of  his  errand  ;  and  returned  with  a  liberal  supply 
of  the  requisites  for  bodily  comfort.  But  it  is  impossible 
to  describe  my  consternation  and  despair  at  his  wishing 
me  good  night,  and  withdrawing  as  soon  as  he  had  re- 
ceived payment  for  what  he  had  expended.  He  disap- 
peared so  promptly,  that  some  instants  elapsed  before  I 
comprehended  his  intention.  I  started  up  from  my 
seat,  and  rushed  to  the  door  to  entreat  him  not  to  leave 
me  ;  but  shame  prevented  me  from  proceeding  farther. 
I  was  reluctant  to  expose  my  weakness  to  a  stranger. 
1  flattered  myself  that  he  would  at  least  pass  the  night 
in  his  master's  apartment  overhead.  But  no  such  thing. 
The  screeching  of  the  house  door  declared  the  horri- 
ble truth.  I  ran  to  the  window,  and  saw  Lebrecht 
tearing  down  an  opposite  street,  as  if  he  had  had  the  devil 
at  his  heels.  He  was  soon  lost  in  the  increasing  darkness, 
and  thus  was  I  abandoned  in  the  desolate  old  Starosty, 
with  a  corpse  for  my  only  companion. 


THE  SENTINEL. 

I  don't  believe  in  ghosts  :  but  I  was  always  afraid 
of  them  when  alone  at  night — and  this  is  not  unnatural. 
Nobody  believes  in  all  that  is  possible;  but  how  ready 
are  we  ever  to  hope  and /ear  things  barely  possible  ? 

Stillness,  like  that  of  a  midnight  church-yard,  reigned 
around  me.  Not  even  a  step  was  to  be  heard  in  the 
street,  which,  as  far  as  1  could  see,  seemed  to  consist  only 
of  half  demolished  and  deserted  houses.  I  turned  from 
the  window  in  despair,  and  threw  myself  into  one  of 
the  old  damask  chairs.  The  grim  visages  of  the  tapes- 
try seemed  to  advance  from  the  walls,  and  my  fascin- 
ated eyes  were  as  if  compelled  to  look  on  them,  until  I 
could  have  sworn  that  the  goggle  eyes  of  Holofernes' 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  63 

bloody  head  began  to  roll,  and  glare  upon  me.  I 
thought  of  the  dead  man  over  my  head,  and  the  hatred 
of  the  Poles  to  my  nation — I  became  almost  delirious 
with  teri'or.  Though  hungry  1  could  not  eat ;  and 
though  tired  to  death,  I  could  not  sleep.  I  examined 
the  windows,  to  see  whether  I  could  escape  from  them 
into  the  street  in  case  of  need  ;  but  they  were  both 
strongl}^  guarded  with  iron  gratings.  On  a  sudden  I 
heard  a  great  noise  in  the  house.  Doors  opened  and 
shut ;  voices,  and  the  trampling  of  feet,  sounded  in  all 
directions.  It  was  most  unaccountable  ;  but  unaccount- 
able things  are  just  those  for  which  some  imaginations 
most  easily  find  a  cause,  and  an  inward  voice  warned 
me  that  1  was  the  object  of  all  this  uproar.  This  was 
the  murderous  conspiracy  which  my  guide  Peter  had 
alluded  to. 

How  could  1  save  myself?  An  ice-cold  shiver  ran 
through  my  veins,  and  1  already  saw  the  blood-thirsty 
villains  consulting  on  the  manner  of  my  death.  I  heard 
their  footsteps  approaching  through  the  rooms  that  led  to 
mine.  They  seemed  to  speak  lower  as  they  advanced. 
I  started  up,  and  had  scarcely  secured  the  door,  when 
an  attempt  was  made  from  without  to  open  it.  I  stood 
as  if  nailed  to  the  ground,  overcome  by  intense  and 
agonizing  apprehensions.  I  dared  not  breathe,  lest  I 
should  betray  myself.  Though  they  spoke  low,  I  could 
distinguish  that  it  was  in  Polish.  Unfortunately  for  me, 
I  had  begun  to  study  that  language  when  I  received  my 
appointment  as  Commissnry  of  Justice,  and  had  just  ac- 
quired enough  of  the  vocabulary  to  be  able  to  recognize 
the  words,  '*  Blood!"  ^' Death!"  and  <' Prussians!" 

I  shook  all  over,  and  a  cold  sweat  bedewed  my  fore- 
head. A  second  attempt  was  made  to  open  the  door  of 
my  chamber,  after  which  I  heard  the  ruffians  retreat. 

Whether  the  Poles  aimed  at  my  life,  or  only  at  my 
money — or  whether  they  meant  to  change  their  plan  of 
attack — I  could  not  decide ;  but  I  determined  to  put 
out  the  candles,  (fire  tiiere  was  none,  as  we  were  in  the 
middle  of  August)  lest  the  light  should  betray  me  to 
any  of  the  assassins,  who  might  be  in  the  street,  and 
who  might  shoot  me  through  the  windows. 

Night  is  unfriendly  to  man,  and   he  is  therefore  a 


64  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

born  enemy  to  darkness.  Even  children,  who  have 
never  heard  of  ghosts,  manifest  dislike  to  being  in  the 
dark,  and  a  corresponding  pleasure  in  light  of  all  kinds. 

I  had  scarcely  extinguished  mine,  when  the  most 
horrible  images  and  possibilities  presented  themselves 
to  my  mind.  Real  and  visible  dangers  are  not  half  so 
terrifying  as  unknown  or  imaginary  ones.  It  was  in 
vain  that  I  endeavoured  to  drive  them  from  my 
thoughts.  In  vain  did  I  throw  myself  on  the  bed,  and 
pray  for  sleep.  My  eyelids  were  stretched  open  with 
supernatural  force.  The  room  smelt  like  a  burial  vault, 
and  when  I  removed  to  other  parts  of  it,  I  heard  rust- 
ling and  breathing,  as  of  some  one  near  me.  Which- 
ever way  I  turned  the  ghastly  form  of  my  countryman 
appeared  before  me.  The  cold,  stiff  features  spoke  to 
my  imagination  with  such  horrible  eloquence,  that  I 
would  have  given  all  I  was  worth  in  the  world,  and 
thanks  into  the  bargain,  to  have  found  myself  once 
more  among  the  living. 

My  nerves  were  shaken  afresh  by  the  tolling  of  mid- 
night ;  the  sound  seemed  to  come  from  the  top  of  the 
Starosty,  and  reverberated  fearfully  through  the  empty 
rooms.  Every  stroke  fell  upon  my  heart.  It  was  in 
vain  I  called  myself  a  fool — a  superstitious  ass.  In  vain 
that  I  argued  against  the  suggestions  of  my  fears.  My 
situation,  at  length,  became  intolerable.  I  made  a  des- 
perate effort  to  move,  and  groping  along  the  wall  till  I 
found  the  door,  I  withdrew  the  bolt,  determined  to 
make  my  way  out,  even  at  the  risk  of  my  life.  The 
door  flew  open,  and  displayed — Heavens!  what  a  spec- 
tacle!— I  staggered  back  with  horror. 

By  the  gloomy  light  of  a  lantern  hanging  against  the 
wall,  I  beheld  the  corpse  of  my  friend  lying  in  the  cof- 
fin, just  as  I  had  seen  it  upstairs,  on  first  entering  the 
house;  with  this  difference  only,  that  the  pall  which 
had  covered  all  but  the  face,  having  fallen  off,  the 
bloody  shirt  of  the  murdered  man  was  now  visible. 
My  horror  was  at  its  height.  I  tried  to  recover  my- 
self, and  to  believe  it  was  all  unreal — the  false  creation 
of  a  brain  heated  by  fear  and  fatigue.  To  satisfy  myself 
that  this  was  the  case,  I  rushed  upon  the  horrible  vision, 
with  the  momentary  courage  of  despair.     But  strik- 


OP    GERMAN  LIFE.  65 

ing  the  coffin  with  my  foot,  it  returned  a  hollow  sound, 
and  I  saw  the  corpse  raise  its  head  and  open  its  eyes. 

The  last  remnant  of  sense  forsook  me.  I  retreated 
precipitately  into  my  chamber,  without  shutting  the 
door,  and  fell  backwards  upon  the  bed. 

Here  my  benumbed  senses  were  again  recalled  to 
new  and  vivid  impressions  of  terror,  by  a  noise  from 
the  adjoining  room,  that  convinced  me  that  Burkhardt 
had  really  awakened  from  the  sleep  of  death — for  it 
was  the  stumbling  and  scrambling  of  one  extricating 
himself  with  difficulty.  I  distinguished  moans,  and 
soon  after  I  saw  the  faint  light  which  proceeded  from 
the  outward  room  obscured  by  the  figure — no  doubt 
that  of  the  late  occupant  of  the  coffin.  It  leant  for  a 
moment  against  the  door-post,  and  then  staggering  for- 
wards, vanished  in  the  darkness  of  my  room,  into 
which  the  dim  rays  of  the  lantern  could  not  penetrate. 
My  doubts  as  to  the  destination  or  intentions  of  the 
re-animated  corpse  were  soon  ended,  b}^  feeling  myself 
suddenly  almost  crushed  to  death  and  smothered  under 
the  leaden  weight  that  fell  upon  me. 

I  cannot  now  comprehend  how  I  survived  this  horri- 
ble moment — and  to  describe  the  agony  I  suffered 
would  be  impossible.  I  know  not  hoW  long  I  lay  in 
the  state  of  insensibility  that  followed,  biit  it  must  have 
been  a  considerable  time  ;  for,  on  hearing  the  clock 
strike  one,  I  thanked  Heaven  that  the  "  vVilching  hour" 
was  passed,  hoping  to  be  relieved  frorii  my  horrible 
burthen,  but  the  clock  struck  two,  and  my  heart  died 
within  me.  Who  can  imagine  my  sufferings?  stifled 
by  the  sickening  smell  of  death — the  body  which  crush- 
ed me  by  its  weight  breathing  warm,  and  tormented 
with  hiccup,  indicating  the  agony  of  a  second  death ! 
-^— I  myself,  alive  only  to  the  horrors  of  my  situation. 
All  the  tortures  of  Dante's  Hell  are  a  jest,  when  com- 
pared to  those  which  I  endured.  I  had  neither  thought, 
or  courage  to  think  of  liberating  myself.  At  last  I  began 
to  think  that  Burkhardt  must  have  only  fainted  with 
loss  of  blood — that  the  Poles  had  disposed  of  him  has- 
tily, without  ascertaining  whether  he  was  dead  or  not 
— and  that  he  was  now  dying  in  earnest.  He  now 
seemed,  by  his  movements,  to  die  very  hard  ;  my 
VOL.  II F  2 


66  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS  OP  GERMAN  LIFE. 

wish  to  assist  him  was  frustrated  by  my  own  ex- 
hausted state,  which  compelled  me  to  remain  passive, 
and  to  let  him  take  his  chance  ;  then  came  the  thought 
that  all  that  had  happened  in  the  last  few  hours  was 
but  a  painful  dream — a  nightmare. 

But  a  new  incident  convinced  me  of  the  reality  of 
all  the  rest. 

It  was  daylight — not  that  I  could  see — for  the  broad 
shoulder-blades  of  my  dying  friend  completely  covered 
my  face  ;  but  I  guessed  it  to  be  morning  from  noise  of 
people  in  the  street.  I  soon  heard  near  footsteps,  and 
loud  rough  voices  in  the  room,  but  I  could  not  under- 
stand what  was  said,  as  it  was  in  Polish.  I  heard  that 
they  were  moving  the  coffin.  "Doubtless,"  thought  I, 
*Uhey  will  seek  the  body  here,  and  deliver  mel'^  And 
so  they  did,  but  not  precisely  in  the  manner  I  expected. 

One  of  the  speakers  approached  the  bed  and  bela- 
boured the  dead,  or  d3nng  man,  so  lustily  with  a  stick, 
that  he  started  up  and  stood  on  his  own  legs,  without 
support  by  the  bedside.  Some  of  the  blows  fell  on  me, 
so  that  I  cried  out  and  scrambled  up  as  well  as  my 
cramped  and  enfeebled  limbs  allowed  me.  I  perceived 
that  the  room  was  full  of  men,  mostly  police.  The 
police  had  come  to  take  away  the  body  of  the  receiver- 
general  for  interment.  It  was  still  lying  as  dead  as 
ever  in  the  coffin  in  the  anti-room  ;  where  the  drunken 
Poles,  who  had  been  ordered  to  bring  it  down  to  the 
porter's  lodge,  had  for  some  reason  of  their  own  pre- 
ferred to  leave  it. 

They  had,  however,  chosen  to  deposit  it  in  my  apart- 
ment instead,  and  left  one  of  their  party  to  guard  ihe 
corpse,  who  awaked,  probably,  by  the  noise  I  made  ; 
and  being  acquainted  with  the  locality,  sought  instinc- 
tively, drunk  as  he  was,  to  sleep  off  his  over-dose  of 
brandy  on  my  bed. 

My  nerves  were  so  shaken  by  the  occurrences  of  the 
night,  that  1  was  seized  by  a  fever,  in  which  I  raved 
seven  weeks  long  about  the  horrors  that  beset  me  dur- 
ing the  memoraiole  night,  and  even  now  that — thanks 
to  the  Polish  insurrection — I  am  no  longer  commiss- 
ioner of  justice  at  Brczwezcisl,  I  cannot  think,  without 
a  shudder,  of  my  adventures  in  New  East  Prussia. 


THE 


RIVAL  PEARLS ;  OR,  THE  TRAVELLER 
MALGRE  LUL 


THE 


RIVAL   PEARLS 


To  the  better  understanding  of  the  following  original 
letters,  the  reader  is  informed,  that  the  writer,  Count 

Stanislaus  G ,    and  his  sister  Severine,  were   one 

night,  in  January  1807,  at  a  ball  given  by  the  Countess 
Annelie  Z — ka,  at  Warsaw.  The  entertainment  was  of 
the  most  brilliant  description  ;  but  the  enjoyment  of 
the  company  was  more  apparent  than  real,  for  not  only 
was  this  the  city  occupied  by  the  French,  but  scarcely 
a  week  had  elapsed  since  the  dissolution  of  the  regency, 
at  the  head  of  which  had  been  the  good  but  calumniated 
Malachaoski. 

The  lovely  hostess  was  on  that  evening  more  enchant- 
ing than  ever.  She  wore  a  pearl  neck-lace  of  great 
value,  the  new-year's  present  of  her  uncle,  Prince  Mi- 
chael S . 

Mademoiselle  Severine  G.  happening  to  have  re- 
ceived one  of  a  similar  description,  a  dispute  arose 
between  the  ladies  as  to  the  beauty  of  their  respective 
etrennes,  which  Count  Stanislaus  G.  was  requested  to 
determine,  by  going  home  for  his  sister's  necklace,  in 
order  to  compare  them  together. 

Count  Stanislaus    G to  the  Countess  Ante- 
lie  Z — ka. 

*•  Blonle,*  January  21,  1807. 

*'  On  bended  knee,  ma  charrnante  amie,  I  entreat 

*  The  first  stage  from  Warsaw  to  Posen. 


70  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

your  pardon  for  having  conveyed  Sophy's  necklace  to 
Blonie,  instead  of  to  your  ball-room.  But  I  shall  re- 
turn to  Warsaw  this  evening,  and  lay  it  at  your  feet. 
In  the  meantime,  to  divert  a  ledious  hour,  I  will  account 
for  having  absconded  so  unceremoniously,  as  a  courier, 
who  will  precede  me  by  several  hours,  has  offered  to 
deliver  my  letters  into  j^ourown  fair  hands.  I  think  I 
know  you  well  enough  to  reckon  on  your  indulgence, 
when  you  learn  that  I  sinned  against  you  solely  in  the 
cause  of  friendship. 

''I  had  taken  the  necklace  out  of  its  case,  and  put  it 
into  my  waistcoat-pocket  ;  and  my  foot  was  on  the  step 
of  the  carriage,  when  my  chasseur  said  that  a  French 
officer  was  inquiring  for  me.  I  turned  back  to  ask  his 
business,  and  found  that  he  was  the  bearer  of  a  letter 

from  my  earliest  and  best  friend  Felix  L y,  whom 

I  had  not  seen  for  ten  years,  during  which  he  had  served 
in  the  campaigns  of  Napoleon,  and  is  now  colonel  of  a 
Polish  Hulan  regiment. 

^^His  letter  was  very  brief;  it  merely  stated  that  he 
was  just  arrived  from  Posen  at  Blonie,  where  he  had 
accidentally  heard  of  my  being  at  Warsaw  ;  but  could 
not  come  on  to  see  me,  as  a  courier  from  head-quarters 
had  met  him  with  orders  to  proceed  to  Thorn  without 
delay.  The  weakness  occasioned  by  a  wound,  from 
which  he  was  scarcely  recovered,  rendering  some  hours' 
rest  imperatively  necessary,  he  should  not  set  forward 
till  daylight  this  morning,  and  entreated  me  therefore 
to  come  to  him,  if  it  were  but  for  an  hour. 

''At  the  peril  of  incurring  your  displeasure,  then,  I 
threw  a  travelling-cloak  over  my  ball-room  attire,  and 
jumping  into  the  carriage,  ordered  the  coachman  to 
drive  to  Blonie  as  fast  as  he  could — it  would  still  have 
been  too  slow  for  my  impatience  had  we  galloped  all 
the  way.  But  we  were  not  less  than  four  hours  toiling 
through  the  new-fallen  snow,  without  any  light  but 
what  proceeded  from  the  carriage-lamps.  My  compan- 
ion (for  I  had  insisted  on  the  officer's  returning  with 
me  in  the  carriage,  leaving  his  horse  to  be  led  back  by 
one  of  my  grooms)  had  neither  left  a  mistress,  nor  was 
going  to  meet  a  friend,  and  therefore  slept  soundly  by 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  71 

my  side,  insensible  to  the  curses,  (pardon  the  word,  fair 
lady)  that  I  showered  ever}'  two  minutes  upon  the 
roads,  the  driver,  and  the  darkness. 

**  At  last  we  arrived,  and  I  almost  think  it  would 
have  made  you  swear  to  have  met  with  such  a  disap- 
pointment as  awaited  me.  Felix  was  no  longer  there  ! 
He  had  left  a  note  for  me,  desiring  me  to  follow  him  to 
Sochazen,  which  you  know   is  the   next  post,   where 

General  I) had  summoned  him  to  receive  further 

instructions.     Here  is  a  perplexity  ! 

'*  Having  come  so  far,  it  would  be  stupid  to  go  back 
without  accomplishing  my  errand  ;  and  yet  one  of  my 
horses  is  dead  lame,  and  there  is  not  a  post-horse  to  be 
had,  the  French  army  having  put  every  beast  of  draught 
and  burthen  in  the  country  under  requisition.  The  post- 
master says  he  expects  the  horses  which  conveyed  Col- 
onel S — ky  to  Sochazen,  to  return  in  the  course  of  an 
hour.  So  as  there  is  no  other  help  for  me,  1  must  have 
patience.  It  is  the  last  resource,  and  that  which  a  man 
never  adopts  but  on  compulsion. 

'^  t^dieu,  done,  la  plus  chlre  et  la  plus  belle  ! — ti  ce 
soir.^^ 

LETTER  n. 

**  Kutno,  January  23. 

*'  You  will  not  be  more  surprised  than  I  am  at  the 
date  of  this  letter.  Destiny  has  again  made  me  faith- 
less, and  I  am  inconsolable.  What  will  you  think  of 
me,  dearest  Amelie  ?  And  yet,  I  am  an  innocent  man, 
<  more  sinned  against  than  sinning.' 

*'The  only  agreeable  part  of  my  adventure  was  my 
meeting  with  Felix  S — ky  at  Sochazen.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  say  which  of  us  was  most  happy.  Ten 
years'  separation  at  our  time  of  life  is  an  age  ;  and  yet 
our  pleasure  was  not  without  its  due  portion  of  sadness, 
at  having  to  part  again  so  soon,  and  perhaps  for  ever  ! 
I  think  you  must  have  known  my  friend  at  Paris,  since 
he  was  aide-de-camp  to  Napoleon,  just  about  the  time 
you  were  there.  He  is  so  much  altered  by  the  burning 
sun  of  Egypt,  and  a  cut  from  an  English  sabre,  that  at 
first  sight  I  should  not  have  recognized  him.    However, 


72  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

it  is  all  so  becoming  that  perhaps  it  is  just  as  well  that 
you  should  not  have  an  opportunity  of  comparing  us 
together,  until  it  will  be  too  late  for  you  to  change  your 
mind.  When  I  see  you,  which  will  be  the  day  after 
to-morrow  without  fail,  you  shall  have  a  rechauffee  of 
his  narrative.  Heavens!  how  strangely  men  are  ban- 
died about  in  these  times.  No  one  can  feel  certain  in 
which  of  the  four  quarters  of  the  world  he  may  eat  his 
last  loaf. 

**  After  being  long  a  staff  officer,  he  now  commands 
a  regiment  of  his  own  raising.  He  has  been  ordered  to 
join  Marshall  Lamers's  division,  and  assures  me  that  Na- 
poleon will  spend  the  summer  at  St  Petersburg  ;  partic- 
ularly if,  as  is  believed,  the  Turks  have  really  declined 
war  ;  what  is  certain  is,  that  the  Russian  minister  Ital- 
insky  has  quitted  Constantinople. 

"  I  flatter  myself  you  and  Severine  are  dying  to 
know  how  I  came  to  be  in  this  wretched  town  of  Kutno, 

instead  of  the  Place  de at  Warsaw.     You  will 

laugh  at  my  disaster,  and  so  I  may  as  well  make  the 
best  of  it,  and  laugh  myself,  in  spite  of  all  the  vexation 
I  have  suffered,  and  still  suffer,  at  being  so  long  detain- 
ed from  you. 

"I  spent  the  whole  of  yesterday  with  my  friend,  and 
it  was  late  in  the  evening  when  we  parted  ;  he  to  go  to 
Thorn,  and  I — tired  as  I  was,  to  return  to  Warsaw. 

'« As  there  was  no  possibility  of  getting  post-horses, 
S — ky  sent  to  the  commissary  to  let  me  have  one  of  the 
carriages  in  requisition,  to  convey  me  to  Blonie,  where 
I  had  left  my  own.  A  very  respectable  britscka,  with 
three  strong  horses,  accordingly  drove  up  to  the  door. 
I  bade  my  friend  once  more  adieu,  and  stepped  in. 

''  Completely  exhausted  through  want  of  sleep,  and 
excitement,  as  soon  as  I  became  sensible  of  the  solitude 
of  the  carriage,  it  acted  upon  me  as  a  sedative.  Feel- 
ing drowsy,  I  buckled  up  the  apron,  and  closed  the 
blinds  ;  then  wrapping  my  cloak  closer  about  me,  I 
tucked  myself  as  snugly  as  I  could  into  the  corner,  and 
fell  asleep.  Luckily  my  servant  had  thought  of  giving 
me  a  great-coat,  as  well  as  a  cloak  ;  but  my  feet,  still 
decked  in  silk  stockings  and  dancing-pumps,  were  forced 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  73 

to  seek  shelter  in  the  hay  with  which  the  bottom  of 
the  britscka  was  filled, — I  know  not  whether  for  the 
purpose  of  keeping  the  occupant  warm,  or  of  feeding 
the  horses.  My  sleep  was  disturbed,  but  my  dreams 
were  delightful,  for  I  dreamt  of  you,  adored  Amelie. 
As  often  as  I  was  awakened  by  a  merciless  jolt,  I  imme- 
diately closed  my  sleep-drunken  eyes  again,  and  it  was 
ever  you  who  led  me  back  to  my  lost  paradise  of  love. 
At  length  a  jolt,  more  violent  than  the  rest,  threw  me 
forward,  with  my  face  against  the  blind,  the  pain  of 
which  awoke  me  to  perfect  recollection,  and  I  was  con- 
founded by  the  sight  of  daylight,  for  I  had  calculated 
on  arriving  at  Blonie  before  midnight.  I  opened  the 
blind,  and  discovered  that  we  were  driving  into  a  town, 
which,  to  my  knowledge,  I  had  never  seen  before. 

'*  Holla!  postilion!  where  are  we!  What  is  the 
name  of  this  place  !" 

^'Kutno!'^  he  replied,  drily,  and  without  stopping. 
*^  Kutno!^^  I  exclaimed,  in  fury,  ^«  And  what  the  devil 
have  you  brought  me  to  Kutno  for  ? — it  was  to  Blonie 
I  wanted  to  go, — turn  about  instantly.^' 

*'But  no — my  friend  drove  on,  without  appearing  to 
hear  me,  and  soon  drew  up  at  the  door  of  an  inn.  I 
alighted,  for  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  broken  in  the  wheel 
— yet  I  was  sorely  tempted  to  horsewhip  the  rogue  of 
a  driver  through  every  street  in  the  town.  He  declar- 
ed that  the  French  officer  had  directed  him  to  Kutno, 
at  least  that  he  had  so  understood  ;  and  applying  the 
whip  to  his  tired  horses,  he  took  himself  off  with  all 
speed.  The  innkeeper  informed  me  that  the  man  was 
a  voiturier  of  the  place,  and  had  been  pressed  into  the 
service  of  the  French  about  a  week  before  ; — that  he 
was  a  sharp  fellow,  and  had  apparently  taken  advantage 
of  the  darkness,  and  of  my  being  neither  Frenchman 
nor  soldier,  to  return  home  instead  of  to  Blonie. 

*«This  conjecture  seemed  very  probable  ;  but  con- 
jectures could  not  help  me.  Here  I  was  plante^  at 
Kutno,  without  any  possible  means  of  getting  back  to 
Warsaw,  or  even  to  Blonie. 

^«  The  landlord  did  his  best  to  comfort  me  with  a  bad 
breakfast,  and  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost  to  procure 
Vol.  H.— G 


74  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

me  a  conveyance  ;  but  every  thing  was  engaged  for  the 
use  of  the  army.  I  even  humbled  myself  before  the 
villanous  voiturier,  who  brought  me  into  this  scrape, 
and  entreated  him  to  take  me  back  upon  his  own  terms, 
however  exorbitant  they  might  be  ;  but  he  swore  again 
and  again,  that  his  carriage  and  horses  had  been  seized 
a  second  time.  My  host,  however,  believed  this  to  be 
a  subterfuge,  and  that  the  equipage  was  concealed  some- 
where in  the  countr}^,  where  it  might  escape  new  re- 
quisitions. 1  have  at  last  efiected  an  arrangement  by 
means  of  a  French  officer  of  engineers,  lodged  in  the 
same  inn  with  me,  going  to  Kladowa.  I  am  to  accom- 
pany him  thither  ;  when  he  promises  to  resign  his  con- 
veyance to  me,  with  authority  to  use  it  as  far  asBlonie. 
To  make  the  matter  sure,  I  have  explained  the  arrange- 
ment to  the  driver,  and  engaged  not  to  take  advantage 
of  the  circumstances,  but  to  pay  him  handsomely  for 
his  trouble.  What  weather  to  travel  in!  But  go  I 
must,  for  the  landlord,  as  well  as  the  engineer,  assures 
me,  that  unless  1  keep  with  the  carriage,  it  will  be  im- 
possible for  me  to  secure  its  return  here. 

**  The  wretchedness  of  the  country  as  we  go  on  is  in- 
describable. Bread  is  scarcely  to  be  had  for  money. 
Our  liberators  make  us  pay  dear  for  our  deliverance. 

"  This  goes  by  the  esiaffete.  Happy  letter!  to  touch 
your  hands  two  days  sooner  than  I  can  have  any  hope 
of  doing.  More  than  once  yesterday,  I  was  tempted 
to  set  off  on  foot  for  Warsaw.  But  reason,  in  the  form 
of  my  obliging  landlord,  suggested  the  inconvenience, 
if  not  the  impossibility,  of  accomplishing  forty  miles 
through  the  deep  slough  of  mud  and  snow,  especially 
in  white  kerseymeres  and  dancing-shoes. 

"  Adieu,  ma  belle  et  bonne.  Comfort  my  poor  little 
Severine." 

LETTER  III. 

"Posen,  January  26. 

<<I  am  certainly   bewitched — I  could  now  believe 

every   tale  of  sorcery  that  Germany  ever  produced. 

To-day,  that  I  waste  have  been  at  Warsaw,  and  at  your 

feet,  most  adorable  Amie — this  very  day,  all  the  evil 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  75 

spirits  that  delight  in  tormenting  mankind,  have  com- 
bined to  bring  me  to  Posen — and  what  is  more,  in  the 
character  of  a  prisoner.  Don't  start  at  the  word,  for  I 
am  at  large  again. 

*^  Since  the  creation  of  man,  there  was  surely  never 
such  a  chapter  of  accidents  as  transported  me  from  your 
ball-room  hither, — a  distance  of  120  miles. 

**I  am  like  one  oppressed  with  nightmare  ;  the  more 
I  strive  to  go  forward,  the  more  forcibly  am  I  pulled 
back. 

'^All  my  desires,  my  impatience,  my  zeal,  my  fore- 
thought, are  of  no  avail,  but  to  drive  me  every  moment 
further  from  the  object  I  have  in  view  ;  as  the  storm 
drives  the  most  skilful  mariner  back  from  the  haven  for 
which  he  steers. 

^*  My  engineer  and  I  set  out  yesterday  together  as 
agreed,  for  Kladowa.  In  this  vilest  of  human  habita- 
tions was  a  French  commandant,  to  whom  the  engineer 
reported  himself,  immediately  on  our  arrival.  There 
he  found  orders  awaiting  him  to  proceed  instantly  to 
Sempolno.  He  came  back  to  me  with  a  million  of 
shrugs  and  apologies  for  not  being  able  to  keep  his  en- 
gagement. Prayers,  remonstrances,  curses,  were  all 
vain.  In  vain  I  represented  the  awkwardness  of  my 
situation — my  words  were  spent  on  ears  insensible  to 
all  but  orders  from  head-quarters. 

"However,  while  the  horses  were  baiting,  the  engi- 
neer ran  to  the  commandant,  and  obtained  an  order, 
enforced  by  the  accompaniment  of  four  soldiers,  empow- 
ering us  to  visit  all  the  stables,  in  search  of  another  con- 
veyance for  me.  But  it  was  all  in  vain — nothing  was 
to  be  found  but  an  invalided  dung-cart! 

"  Since  there  was  nothing  better  to  be  done,  I  now 
resolved  to  go  on  with  the  engineer  to  Sempolno,  in 
order  to  make  sure  of  his  carriage,  when  he  had  done 
with  it.  At  all  events,  I  hoped  to  obtain  a  more  habit- 
able lodging  than  in  this  filthy,  squalid  village  of  Kla- 
dowa. 

'*  The  engineer  agreed  to  my  proposal,  but  still  I 
could  not  recover  my  temper. 

"  We  performed  our  journey  in  sulky  silence,  and 


76  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

parted  coldy  at  the  end  of  it.  1  was  more  gracious  to 
the  driver,  and  gave  him  a  couple  of  ducats,  in  earnest 
of  further  liberal  payment  of  his  services  ;  in  return  for 
which  the  fellow  promised  to  be  ready  to  set  out  before 
break  of  day.  He  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  we 
were  off  by  four  o'clock  ;  but  we  had  scarcely  reached 
the  top  of  a  hill,  three  miles  from  Sempolno,  when,  on 
looking  back,  I  saw  some  French  mounted  chasseurs, 
evidently  in  pursuit  of  us.  My  driver,  full  of  fearful 
presentiments,  flogged  his  beasts,  alternately  cursing 
and  invoking  all  the  saints  in  the  calendar.  His  terror 
seemed  to  me  as  superfluous  as  his  efforts  to  escape  the 
soldiers.  They  were  soon  up  with  us,  ordered  us  to 
halt,  and  abused  the  poor  fellow  for  having,  as  they 
said,  withdrawn  himself  clandestinely  from  the  service 
of  the  army  ;  telling  him  that  he  would  be  shot  for  mu- 
tiny. The  voiturier  knew  not  a  word  of  French,  but 
there  was  no  misunderstanding  the  gestures  of  these 
heroes,  and  the  poor  devil  cast  most  lamentable  and  im- 
ploring looks  at  me.  I  interfered,  as  the  soldiers  seemed 
to  expect,  for  they  answered  me  civilly,  asked  who  I 
was,  and  whether  I  had  a  passport.  They  deemed  it  a 
suspicious  circumstance  that  I  had  not  one,  and  requested 
I  would  have  *la  complaisance'  to  accompany  them  to 
the  commandant. 

"Accordingly  with  two  soldiers  trotting  before  the 
carriage,  and  two  behind  it,  we  returned  to  Sempolno. 
As  soon  as  the  commandant  was  informed  of  the  cir- 
cumstances, I  was  declared  to  be  a  suspicious  person, 
an  enemy  of  Napoleon,  and  a  prisoner  of  war. 

"My  only  comfort  was  to  find  myself  regarded  as 
of  consequence  enough  to  be  sent  to  head- quarters, 
where  I  hoped  to  find  the  means  of  justifying  myself 
from  all  imputations  of  disaffection.  In  two  hours' 
time  I  was  on  the  road  to  Posen,  under  the  guard  of  a 
corporal  and  a  subaltern  officer,  who  happened  to  be 
going  thither. 

"  We  are  easily  provoked  by  trifling  and  unlooked  for 
crosses,  probably  because  we  think  to  conquer  them  d, 
force  de  volonte,  but  our  powers  of  endurance  increase 
with  those  exigencies  which  defy  all  hope  of  successful 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  77 

opposition,  and  call  upon  our  philosophy  to  play  its 
part. 

"I  was  now  quite  as  much  amused  by  finding  my- 
self in  the  character  of  a  prisoner  on  the  frontier  of 
Poland,  as  I  had  hitherto  been  annoyed  by  the  minor 
vexations  I  had  encountered.  la  fact,  the  disaster  was 
not  in  itself  so  great,  and  I  can  imagine  you  and  Seve- 
_rine  as  much  entertained  at  my  adventures  as  /now  am. 

<•' Absence  from  you  is  the  only  real  evil  1  have  to 
complain  of.  You  see  what  mischief  arises  out  of  the 
rivalry  of  women.  Troy  was  laid  in  ashes,  and  here 
am  I  driven,  day  after  day,  from  post  to  pillar,  with 
Severine's  necklace  in  my  pocket;  and  all  because  it 
pleased  you  two  ladies  to  dispute  who  had  the  finest 
pearls. 

<'  I  am  glad  to  find  myself  in  Posen.  I  was  received 
very  hospitably  at  the  French  head-quarters.  Apolo- 
gies without  end  were  made  to  me  for  the  inconveni- 
ences 1  had  suffered  from  the  strong  measures  requisite  for 
the  service.  AH  the  national  politeness  was  insufficient, 
however,  to  control  the  general's  laughter  at  my  narra- 
tive of  the  circumstances  which  had  transported  me  from 
Warsaw  to  Posen,  in  the  depth  of  winter,  in  ball-room 
paraphernalia,  considerably  the  worse,  as  well  as  my 
person,  for  five  days'  travelling,  since  all  this  time  I  was 
forced  to  abstain  from  brushes,  razors,  and  clean  linen. 
My  first  business,  therefore,  was  to  discard  my  silk 
stockings  and  gold  buckles,  in  favour  of  a  more  fitting 
travelling  costume,  whose  military  cut,  together  with 
my  passport,  will  secure  the  respect  of  the  commanding 
corporals  of  la  grande  armee. 

^' I  have  bought  a  strong  horse,  and  nothing  detains 
me  here  but  the  unfinished  labours  of  the  tailor  and 
boot-maker.  I  cannot  get  away  till  to-morrow.  It  is 
always  upon  trifles  that  we  poor  mortals  are  most  de- 
pendent. The  hours  move  slowly,  for  nothing  interests 
in  this  whirling  turmoil  of  military  life,  and  I  am  tired 
of  the  unceasing  uproar  of  drums,  fifes,  and  trumpets, 
the  clank  of  sabres  and  the  swearing  of  soldiers. 

"P.S.  January  2Sth.^ — My  letter  could  not  go  till 
to-day,  as  there  is  a  post  but  twice  a  week.  All  is  ready, 
VOL.  II. — G  2 


78  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

I  set  out  lo-morrow  in  company  with  some  Polish  and 
French  officers  of  my  acquaintance.  Tell  my  sister  to 
expect  me  on  Friday." 

LETTER  IV. 

*'  Mag-deb  urg,  April  2. 

<'  Heaven  knows,  my  dearest  Amelie,  whether  my 
pencil  scrawl  from  Dresden  reached  you,  or  whether 
you  will  ever  see  this.  At  all  events  I  will  repeat  the 
contents  of  my  last,  and  beg  you  and  my  other  friends 
to  use  their  interest  with  our  Regency  and  the  French 
envoy  to  obtain  my  release, 

"We  had  left  Posen  about  three  hours,  when  we 
were  surprised,  surrounded,  and  made  prisoners  by  a 
party  of  Prussians,  between  Schwersens  and  Kostrzyne. 
One  of  the  French  officers  with  me  was  killed,  and 
another  wounded,  I  was  the  only  one  who  escaped 
being  plundered,  as  I  was  able  to  explain  in  German  to 
the  commander  that  I  was  not  a  military  man,  but  a 
traveller,  and  only  by  accident  associated  with  my  pre- 
sent companions.  This  was  confirmed  by  my  passport, 
and  the  declaration  which  I  thought  it  prudent  to  make, 
that  far  from  being  a  partisan  of  Napoleon,  I  was  a  faith- 
ful subject  of  Prussia;  and  of  noticing  more  desirous, 
than  to  see  the  French  driven  out  of  the  country.  I 
told  him  that  several  French  regiments  were  to  march 
that  day  from  Posen  to  Warsaw.  He  resolved  on  the 
spot  to  change  his  route  for  Silesia,  but  signified  to  me 
at  the  same  time,  under  the  actual  circumstances,  I  could 
not  be  released. 

<<  After  several  days  spent  in  traversing  the  most  de- 
testable roads,  we  crossed  the  Warta,  half  starved,  and 
more  than  half  frozen.  I  supplicated  and  stormed  to  no 
purpose.  I  took  care,  however,  to  conceal  Severine's 
necldace,  and  my  remaining  gold,  lest  the  Prussians 
should  take  it  into  their  heads  to  treat  me  as  they  had  done 
the  rest  of  my  companions. 

"The  Prussian  commandant,  whose  rank  was  that  of 
a  major,  at  last  proposed  to  me,  since  there  was  no 
chance  of  my  being  released  till  he  could  communicate 
with  his  superiors,  that  I  should  prove  my  loyalty  by 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  79 

serving  the  king,  at  least  as  a  volunteer.  Asa  Prussian 
subject,  I  could  not  decline,  without  laying  myself  open 
to  suspicions  which  might  prove  very  disadvantageous 
to  one  in  my  predicament.  Therefore,  making  a  virtue 
of  necessity,  I  consented  to  do  the  duty  of  an  adjutant, 
with  the  rank  of  lieutenant. 

<<  But  the  further  we  adventured  into  Silesia, 
the  more  I  despaired  of  ever  recovering  my  liber- 
ty. What  we  suffered  from  frost,  snow,  and  insuffi- 
cient food,  is  indescribable.  Wherever  we  went  we 
were  compelled  to  take  by  force  what  we  wanted. 
The  most  pitiable  objects,  however,  were  the  prison- 
ers whom  we  dragged  about  with  us.  The  Poles  proudly 
rejected  all  my  attempts  to  mitigate  their  sufferings.  I 
read  in  their  eyes  that  they  considered  me  as  a  traitor. 
This  was  more  painful  to  me  than  all  the  rest,  and  it 
was  not  long  ere  I  felt  the  effects  of  their  resentment. 
The  major  had  directed  his  route  towards  Glogan,  but 
we  did  not  reach  it.  One  morning,  while  our  detach- 
ment, consisting  only  of  two  companies,  was  preparing 
to  march  from  the  village  in  which  we  had  halted  for 
the  night,  a  troop  of  French  hussars  fell  upon  us. 

<'  Our  commander  would  have  resisted  valiantly,  but 
they  were  soon  joined  by  a  regiment  of  infantry.  Our 
valour  was  vain.  We  had,  in  fact,  fallen  in  with  the  out- 
posts of  Vendamme's  army.  The  Prussians  fought  like 
devils,  and  took  two  of  the  fieldpieces  which  had  been 
fired  upon  us;  but  the  end  of  the  matter  was,  that  we 
were  overpowered,  and  obliged  to  yield,  with  the  loss 
of  several  men  killed,  and  many  wounded. 

*'  To  none  was  this  victory  more  welcome  than  to 
our  French  and  Polish  prisoners  of  war.  The  latter 
pointed  me  out  immediately  to  the  French  general  as  a 
Polish  deserter,  and  an  enemy  of  Napoleon,  who  had 
not  only  betrayed  and  delivered  them  into  the  hands  of 
the  Prussians,  but  was  bearing  arms  in  the  Prussian 
service.  I  had  nothing  to  say  in  my  defence;  for  the 
major  acknowledged  me  as  his  adjutant,  and  tlie  passport 
granted  by  the  French  general  at  Posen,  seemed  to  prove 
the  accusation  of  treachery. 

«'  I  was  plundered  of  my  horse,  my  watch,  and  my 


80  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

purse,  and  compelled  to  wade  on  foot  through  snow  and 
mud,  with  the  rest  of  the  prisoners  to  Dresden,  where 
we  halted  a  few  days. 

'<■  Thus  far  you  should  know  of  my  misfortunes,  if 
(as  I  greatly  doubt)  you  received  my  letter  from  thence. 
From  Dresden  we  were  marched  to  Leipzig,  and  from 
Leipzig  to  Magdeburg,  where  I  have  now  been  about 
eight  days.  The  inhabitants  are  very  kind  and  compas- 
sionate to  us;  their  own  distresses  disposing  them  to 
sympathize  with  ours;  for  they  detest  the  French,  and 
are  deeply  attached  to  their  unfortunate  monarch. 

'^  If  the  greatest  efforts  are  not  made  in  my  behalf,  at 
Warsaw,  I  shall  probably  be  detained  here  till  the  end 
of  the  war.  My  money,  which  I  did  so  well  to  conceal, 
is  almost  exhausted,  and  I  beg  my  sister  to  send  me  a 
bill  on  some  banker  here  for  a  fresh  supply.  The 
French  governor  of  Magdeburg  is  a  pleasant  gentlemanly 
man.  I  had  an  opportunity  of  relating  to  him  the  cir- 
cumstances by  which  I  have  become  his  prisoner.  He 
laughed  heartily,  but  could  scarce  bring  himself  to  be- 
lieve me.      He   happens  fortunately  to  be  an  intimate 

friend  of  Felix  L y,  but  his  good  will  cannot  go  the 

length  of  setting  me  at  liberty.  However,  he  allows  me 
many  indulgencies,  and,  best  of  all,  promises  to  forward 
my  letters  to  you  and  Felix. 

<<  Sometimes  a  fit  of  the  blue  devils  comes  over  me, 
and  I  curse  the  fate  which  separates  me  from  you  ;  but 
I  never  was  much  given  to  despondency,  and,  on  the 
whole,  am  cheerful  enough.  My  health  is  excellent, 
so  that  you  and  Severine  have  no  cause  for  anxiety 
about  me.  I  shall  count  the  days  and  hours  until  I  re- 
ceive an  answer  to  this." 

LETTER  V. 

"  Nancy,  May  20. 
*<  Hurrah!  This,  indeed,  is  advancing  in  the  world. 
I  begin  to  think  that,  before  I  have  done,  my  wandering 
star  will  have  led  me  to  Paris,  and  from  thence  to  Lis- 
bon— across  the  Atlantic,  and  by  the  north-west  passage 
over  Asia,  back  again  to  Warsaw.  I  no  longer  hope  to 
retrace  my  steps,  and  by-and-by  it  will  not  be  worth 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  81 

while — "returning  were  as  tedious  as  go  on."  Had  I 
but  one  line  from  you,  I  think  I  could  be  content,  tor- 
menting as  is  my  position.  Who  knows  but  a  letter 
may  be  waiting  for  me  at  Magdeburg,  from  whence,  in 
about  a  week  from  the  date  of  my  last  letter,  I  was  des- 
patched with  a  great  posse  of  prisoners  to  Mayence. 
But  there  was  to  be  no  rest  to  the  sole  of  my  foot  ;  no 
sooner  there,  than  we  were  shoved  on  into  France.  The 
horde  of  prisoners  to  which  I  belonged,  has  been  split 
into  fifty  parts,  and  sent  to  all  points  of  the  compass. 
We  are  like  a  community  of  ants  dispersed  by  the  acci- 
dental tread  of  a  horse's  hoof ;  or  a  flight  of  insects 
borne  by  the  storm-wind  into  distant  lands. 

"  I  shall  put  these  few  lines  into  the  post-office  close 
to  our  barrack,  to  still  any  apprehension  which  might 
arise  from  your  not  receiving  an  answer  to  the  letter 
you  have  surely  directed  to  Magdeburg. 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  that  I  have  not  been  absent 
twenty  years.  How  many  lands,  mountains,  rivers, 
and  nations,  lie  between  us!  Who  can  answer  that 
I  may  not  yet  become  your  antipode  ?  Ah!  Amelie, 
what  chances  lie  between  the  cup  and  the  lip.  Sup- 
pose you  were  to  die,  or  (what  would  be  the  same  to 
me)  suppose  you  were  to  becomethe  wife  of  another 
— for  I  never  yet  heard  or  read  of  true  love  between 
antipodes. 

"  Since  we  poor  captive  heroes  crossed  the  Rhine, 
we  have  been  allowed  much  more  liberty  than  on  Ger- 
man ground.  I  may  wander  where  I  will,  provided  I 
attend  the  roll-call. 

*'  I  may  eat  and  drink  where  I  please,  provided  I  pay 
for  it.  How  lucky  it  was  that  I  had  provided  myself 
with  so  large  a  sum  to  meet  the  chances  of  Count  S — 's 
Faro  bank!  The  first  and  only  good  I  ever  knew  arise 
from  gambling. 

'*!  understand  our  final  destination  is  at  the  foot  of 
the  Pyrenees,  and  I  shall  probably  not  write  again 
till  I  am  settled,  when  I  hope  to  be  allowed  to  remain 
in  peace  until  I  obtain  my  liberty  ;  or,  at  least,  long 
enough  to  hear  from  Warsaw.  Yet  such  is  the  perver- 
sity of  my  fate,  that  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  I  should 


82  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

have  to  date  my  next  letter  from  the  Peak  of  Tenerifie, 
or  the  Island  of  Madagascar." 

LETTER  VI. 

"  Acqs,  June  27. 

"  At  length  I  have  reached  my  destination.  It  is 
here  that  I  am  to  wait  an  exchange  of  prisoners,  a 
peace,  or  any  other  lucky  accident  that  may  set  me 
free.  My  destiny  is  more  endurable  than  I  at  first  ex- 
pected. To  be  removed  per  force  from  Warsaw  to  the 
frontiers  of  Spain,  is,  to  be  sure,  no  trifle  ;  but  still  it  is 
some  comfort  to  stop  short  of  Otaheite  and  Bengal, 
though,  by  all  accounts,  there  is  more  to  see  there 
than  on  these  desert  banks  of  the  Adour. 

*^I  never  saw  a  Frenchman  in  Poland  who  did  not 
abuse  my  father-land  ;  now  I  can  repay  them  to  the 
very  smallest  fraction  of  their  abuse.  What  a  bare, 
flat,  and  beggarly  country  have  I  passed  through  to  the 
extremity  of  La  belle  France.  I  begin  to  suspect  that 
the  French  government  carry  on  war,  in  order  to 
people  their  solitudes  ;  for  I  have  seen  almost  as  many 
prisoners  as  natives. 

**  The  little  town  of  Acqs,  twelve  miles  from  Bay- 
onne,  is  half  in  ruins,  but  my  host  prides  himself  on  its 
antiquity,  and  the  wonderful  qualities  of  its  hot  baths, 
in  which  he  persecutes  me  to  boil  myself,  as  if  it  was 
not  enough  to  be  scorched  by  the  sun.  The  heat  is 
insufferable,  and  I  am  already  the  colour  of  a  mulatto. 
The  old  man,  however,  has  a  pretty,  amiable  daughter, 
who  is  a  far  more  agreeable  object  of  contemplation 
than  mouldering  walls,  were  they  those  of  the  great 
Babylon.     Don't  be  jealous,  Amelie. 

'^The  prisoners  are  billeted  on  the  towns-people. 
We  have  nothing  gratis  but  lodging  ;  ever)^  thing  else 
must  be  paid  for.  My  money  being  at  an  end,  I  have 
been  obliged  to  borrow  some  of  Severine's  necklace — 
I  hope  it  will  console  her  for  the  loss  of  her  jewels,  to 
think  that  they  are  converted  into  food  and  clothing  for 
her  poor  captive  brother.  I  have  already  sold  the  dia- 
mond-clasp, and  a  string  of  the  pearls,  to  a  jeweller 
from  Bayonne,  who  comes  here  in  the  bathing-season. 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  83 

He  could  only  pay  me  a  part  of  the  money  on  account, 
and  must  go  to  Bayonne  for  the  remainder. 

**  I  have  now  the  means  of  living  comfortably.  I 
have  hired  a  servant,  bought  a  pony,  and  am  enabled  to 
assist  my  fellow-prisoners.^' 

LETTER  VII.* 

"  Acqs,  July  13. 

"  Te  Deum  laudamus  !  We  have  peace  at  last ; 
we  are  all  shaking  hands,  and  wishing  one  another  joy 
of  our  approaching  return  to  our  country  and  friends. 
The  French  talk  of  nothing  but  Tilsit,  and  their  god- 
like emperor  ; — Csesar  and  Alexander,  say  they,  were 
not  worthy  to  be  his  aide-de-camps.  The  mayor  of  this 
place  pronounced  an  eloquent  harangue  in  honour  of  the 
joyful  event,  in  which  he  informed  his  auditors  that 
Tilsit  was  situated  far  north,  on  the  borders  of  Asiatic 
Tartary  ;  and  that  the  left  wing  of  the  conquering 
army  had  extended  its  advanced  posts  across  the  eter- 
nal ice  of  the  north-pole,  where  no  mortal  had  ever 
before  set  his  foot.  The  good  people  of  Acqs  actually 
shivered  with  cold  at  the  mayor's  vivid  description  of 
the  white  bears  and  icebergs  that  their  valiant  coun- 
trymen had  encountered. 

**I  expect  every  hour  to  hear  that  the  order  for  our 
liberation  has  arrived.  I  wish  I  could  hear  from  you 
before  I  set  out  on  my  return.  That  no  time  may  be 
lost  after  the  order  arrives,  I  shall  immediately  look 
out  for  a  travelling  caliche,  and  have  all  things  in  rea- 
diness to  take  the  road  to  Warsaw  as  fast  as  post-horses 
can  carry  me.  I  shall  take  my  servant,  an  honest  gas- 
con,  with  the  high  sounding  name  of  Themistocles. 
We  have  become  attached  to  one  another.  His  only 
fault  is  an  incurable  love  of  talking  :  any  subject,  or 
none  at  all,  will  serve  his  purpose.  I  like,  however, 
to  be  overwhelmed  with  his  torrent  of  words,  when  I 
do  not  wish  to  think,  and  cannot  forget  myself  in  sleep. 

**  As  I  shall  not  stop  on  the  way,  unless  compelled  by 
untoward  accidents,  there  will  be  no  use  in  your  reply- 

*  Some  letters  appear  to  be  lost. 


84  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

ing  to  this,  or  any  other  letter  that  I  may  find  time  to 
write  on  the  road.  As  I  have  kept  a  journal  pretty 
regularly,  you  will  learn,  not  only  all  my  adventures, 
but  all  the  thoughts,  observations,  and  reflections  that 
have  occupied  my  brain  since  I  crossed  the  Rhine. 
You  will  see,  too  (in  spite  of  the  black  eyes  of  my  land- 
lord's daughter),  how  constantly,  fair  Amelie,  you  have 
been  present  to  the  mind  of  the  truest  knight  that  ever 
vowed  love  and  fealty  to  fair  lady." 

LETTER  VIII. 

"July  28. 

"  Take  your  sky-blue  and  gold-bound  Atlas,  most 
beautiful  Countess,  and  look  for  the  map  of  Spain,  and 
there  for  the  kingdom  of  Navarre,  and  there  again  for 
the  city  of  Pampelutia,  its  capital,  situated  at  the  foot  of 
the  Pyrenees — for  there  am  I,  your  devoted  Stanislaus  ! 

''  I  can  no  longer  doubt  that  I  am  the  sport  of  the  most 
mischievous  and  ingenious  of  all  the  evil  spirits  that 
ever  tormented  mankind.  No  sooner  do  I  feel  sure  of 
returning  to  you  than  something  happens  to  widen  the 
distance  between  us  !  The  world  is  at  peace,  and  I  am 
nothing  the  better  of  it,  since  I  am  compelled  in  ex- 
change, to  wage  war  with  Alcaldes,  Regidores,  Procur- 
atores,  Escribanos,  and  God  knows  what  plagues  besides. 
Now  that  I  have  passed  the  Pyrenees,  nolens  volens, 
there  is  still  some  chance  of  my  returning  to  Warsaw, 
via  Cape  Horn,  Calcutta,  and  Constantinople.  Trust  no 
more  to  what  I  may  say  of  my  travelling  plans. 

"  I  had  just  received,  and  was  for  the  twentieth  time 
reading  your  letter,  with  the  enclosures  from  dear 
Severine,  and  m}^  uncle  Michael,  when  I  was  summoned 
by  a  gens-d'armes  to  accompany  him  to  the  mayor  of 
Acqs.  The  mayor  conducted  me  to  the  Judge  de  Paix, 
and  the  Judge  de  Paix  into  a  chamber,  where  there 
were  several  people  assembled,  and  amongst  them,  the 
jeweller  who  had  purchased  a  great  part  of  Severine's 
necklace.  I  was  shown  the  diamonds  and  pearls  in  a 
case,  and  asked  if  I  recognised  them,  and  if  I  had  sold 
them  to  the  man  before  me.     1  replied  that  to  the  best 


or  GERMAN  LIFE.  85 

of  my  remembrance,  the  jewels  were  the  same  that  I  had 
sold  to  the  person  in  question.  The  mayor,  the  justice, 
and  the  jeweller  shook  their  heads.  I  was  told  that  I 
should  be  sent  forthwith  to  the  gaol  atBayonne,  and  seals 
put  upon  all  my  property  till  the  affair  was  cleared  up. 
At  Bayonne  I  underwent  a  new  examination,  and  was 
questioned  with  great  naivete  as  to  the  abode  of  my 
fellow  thieves,  when  I  learned,  for  the  first  time,  that  a 
Spanish  duchess  had  been  plundered  some  weeks  before, 
on  the  road  to  Turin  close  to  the  frontiers.  The  jewels 
I  had  sold  to  the  jeweller  were  found  to  answer  in  every 
respect  the  printed  description  of  a  necklace  which  had 
been  taken  from  the  duchess.  I  was  then  unceremonious- 
ly deposited  in  the  gaol,  while  a  hint  was  given  to  me 
that  I  might  escape,  or  at  most  only  be  sent  to  the  galleys 
for  life,  by  turning  evidence  against  my  comrades,  and 
by  confessing  what  had  become  of  the  remaining  con- 
tents of  the  duchess's  caskets.  My  assurances  that  I 
was  neither  thief,  nor  abettor  of  thieves,  were  utterly 
disregarded,  and  at  the  end  of  a  week  I  was  handcuffed, 
mounted  on  a  mule,  and  conveyed  between  two  soldiers 
to  Pampeluna,  in  order  to  be  confronted  with  the  rob- 
bers, my  supposed  associates,  who  had  been  apprehend- 
ed during  my  imprisonment  at  Bayonne.  I  cannot 
suppose  that  my  detention  will  be  of  long  duration — but 
business  goes  on  slowly  in  this  country  ;  and  you  would 
suffer  more  alarm  at  my  non-appearance  at  the  time 
I  gave  you  reason  to  expect  me,  than  from  knowing 
the  cause  of  my  delay. 

*'  I  am  permitted  to  write,  provided  my  letter  passes 
open  through  the  hands  of  the  police. 

**  Tell  Severine  that  if  I  am  promoted  to  a  gallows  in 
Spain,  it  will  be  her  fault. 

**S.  G-" 

LETTER  IX. 

"Bayonne,  Aug-ust  14. 
*<  I  trust  you  have  not  been  made  uneasy  by  my  last. 
I  was  liberated  the  second  day  after  my  arrival  at  Pam- 
peluna ;  the  duchess  herself,  to  whom  the  jewels  were 
shown,  having  declared  they  were  quite  different  from 
Vol.  II.— H 


S6  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS  OP  GERMAN  LIFE. 

those  she  had  lost.  So  I  was  neither  confronted  with 
the  robbers,  hanged,  nor  sent  to  the  galleys.  Many- 
apologies  were  made.  The  viceroy  asked  me  to  dinner, 
and  the  duchess  to  her  tertullen.  But  notwithstanding 
all  their  civilities  the  Spanish  ground  seemed  to  burn  the 
soles  of  my  feet,  and  I  hastened  back  to  Bayonne. 
My  passport  is  ready.  Themistocles  is  gone  to  Acqs 
for  my  caleche  and  luggage,  and  to-morrow  by  daylight 
I  shall  be  on  the  way  to  Warsaw  unless  a  new  adventure 
sends  me  in  the  direction  of  Madrid  and  Morocco. 
Some  sorcerer  must  certainly  be  in  love  with  you,  and 
jealous  of  me  ;  for  in  the  natural  world  a  man  does  not 
take  the  Pyrenees  in  his  way  from  one  street  to  another, 
in  Warsaw.  You  may  expect  to  hear  of  me  next  at 
Algiers,  if  I  do  not  appear  before  the  end  of  September. 
Adieu." 

"September  30. 
"  Dearest  Amelie — Stanislaus  is  this  moment  arrived 
He  will  be  with  you  as  soon  as  he  has  changed  his  dress. 
He  has  travelled  all  night,  and  is  covered  with  dust ; 
but  he  seems  in  excellent  health  and  spirits. 


'  <  Ever  yours, 

"  Severine  G — ska.^^ 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL    EVIDENCE 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL     EVIDENCE. 


The  Christmas  of  17 — brought  with  it  a  fresh  accession 

of  students   and   snow   to   the   university   of  L . 

Julius  Eimar  was  one  of  the  last  of  the  stragglers,  that 
came  dropping  in  the  last  day  of  the  vacation  ;  and  after 
making  hasty  visits  to  the  professors,  he  went  to  provide 
himself  with  a  lodging.  He  found  all  the  houses  in  the 
principal  streets  occupied.  Without  an  acquaintance, 
or  even  a  kind  countryman  to  help  or  direct  him  in  his 
search,  he  went  from  one  street  to  another,  looking  on 
every  side  for  notices  of  apartments  to  let,  till  his  fruit- 
less wanderings  led  him  into  a  very  retired  quarter.  A 
dilapidated  castle,  and  some  old  wooden  buildings, 
which  had  once  served  for  barracks,  stood  on  the  side 
of  a  broad  moat,  which  surrounded  the  town.  These 
were  connected  with  the  more  populous  and  frequented 
streets,  by  a  few  solitary  houses  of  poor  artisans.  On 
one  of  these,  small  but  neat  in  its  appearance,  besides 
an  inscription  signifying  that  good  wine  and  beer  were 
to  be  had  within,  there  was  a  board,  offering  furnished 
lodgings  for  a  single  man.  Julius  was  not  deterred  by 
the  circumstance  of  its  being  a  wine  house,  but,  anx- 
ious to  get  a  roof  over  his  head,  (it  being  already  dusk) 
he  entered,  and  was  favourably  impressed  by  what  he 
saw  within.  The  walls  of  brown  wainscot  were  fur- 
nished with  shelveSjOn  which  were  ranged  a  bright  show 
of  tin  and  pewter  utensils — a  buffet  was  crowded  with 
glasses  and  china  bowls  of  all  dimensions,  and  the  glass 
doors  of  an  old  fashioned  walnut-tree  press,  exhibited  a 
goodly  assem.blage  of  wickpr-coated  brandy  flasks.  A 
lamp  hung,  already  lit,  from  the   ceiling,  and  cast  its 

VOL.   II. — H  2 


90  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

broad  lights  and  shadows  on  the  form  of  an  old  grey- 
haired  man,  sitting  in  a  high  backed  elbow  chair  of  an- 
tique form,  and  reading  in  a  silver-clasped  bible. 

The  mistress,  an  elderly  woman,  though  much  younger 
than  her  husband,  was  coaxing  a  large  tortoiseshell  cat 
to  come  down  from  the  top  of  the  stove,  where  it  sat 
purring,  to  a  saucer  of  milk,  held  out  in  the  hand  of  a 
little  fair-haired,  rosy  cheeked  girl,  of  four  or  five  years 
old.  There  were  no  guests,  nor  traces  of  any  party 
carousing  there,  and  the  whole  scene  had  an  air  of  seri- 
ous tranquillity,  strangely  out  of  character  with  a 
house  of  entertainment.  Neither  the  host  or  his  wife 
immediately  answered  the  student's  request  to  see  the 
lodgings,  but  looked  at  one  another  in  silence.  The 
man  at  length  asked  what  profession  the  inquirer  fol- 
lowed. Julius  thought  the  question  rather  unneces- 
sary, but  replied  that  he  was  a  student  of  divinity,  and 
about  to  take  orders.  Hereupon  the  old  man  nodded 
complacently,  and  desired  the  woman  to  light  a  candle, 
and  show  the  gentleman  up  stairs.  Julius  remarked 
that  she  proceeded  to  obey  the  mandate  with  an  air  of 
hesitation  and  reluctance,  looking  from  time  to  tifne 
significantly  at  her  husband,  as  if  she  felt  some  objections 
to  the  proceeding,  which  she  could  not  express  before 
the  stranger.  <'  1  fear,"  said  she,  at  last,  ^*  that  the  Herr 
Student  will  not  be  comfortable.  The  customers  might 
disturb  him." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  noise,"  said  he. 

<«  But  you  may  not  like  the  stillness  of  this  retired 
street,"  returned  the  woman.  <' Except  the  old  in- 
valided commandant  at  the  castle,  who  is  confined  three 
parts  of  the  year  with  the  gout,  you  will  see  nobody, 
or  only  a  few  artisans,  and  a  sea-faring  man  or  two,  who 
have  long  frequented  our  house." 

i'Such  quietness  is  congenial  with  my  pursuits,"  said 
Julius. 

<<  Besides,  we  should  not  like  our  house  to  become 
the  resort  of  young  students." 

<'  You  need  not  fear  that,"  he  replied,  **  I  am  a  per- 
fect stranger  here,  and  do  not  easily  make  acquaint- 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  91 

"  We  are  old  people,  Herr  Student,  and  our  ways 
may  not  be  agreeable  to  such  a  young  gentleman." 

"I  shall  not  meddle  in  your  concerns,"  said  he,  '^  at 
all  events  we  need  only  agree  by  the  month.  However, 
if  you  object  to  me  as  a  lodger,  say  so  at  once,  and  I  will 
try  to  suit  myself  elsewhere." 

The  woman  again  looked  at  her  husband  ;  "  Sarah," 
said  the  old  man,  impatiently,  <«  what  is  all  this  chatter 
about  }  show  the  gentleman  the  room  above,  and  have 
done  with  it." 

The  hostess  took  the  candle,  and  desired  Julius  to 
follow  her. 

If  his  desire  to  be  lodged  in  her  house  had  been  ex- 
cited by  her  opposition,  it  was  confirmed  by  the  clean 
comfortable  aspect  of  the  room.  The  bed  stood  in  a 
curtained  alcove  at  one  end,  leaving  a  sufficiently  large 
sitting-room  ;  and  the  furniture,  though  old  fashioned, 
was  in  good  preservation,  whilst  the  whiteness  of  the 
counterpane  and  the  clearness  of  the  mirrors  and  win- 
dow-panes, testified  both  the  industry  and  cleanliness 
of  its  owner. 

She,  however,  continued  to  say  in  the  same  anxious 
tone  as  below  stairs,  that  the  student  might  not  like  the 
lodgings,  and  that  the  last  inmate  had  complained  of  the 
coldness  of  the  room,  the  aspect  being  north. 

Julius  smiled,  and  replied,  that  he  preferred  a  temper- 
ate atmosphere,  and  that  in  his  father's  house  he  had 
been  unused  to  luxuries.  It  occurred  to  him  that  the  hos- 
tess might  be  afraid  lest  her  furniture  should  be  injured; 
he  therefore  told  her  that  his  mother  had  brought  him 
up  in  habits  of  tidyness — that  he  never  spilt  the  ink, 
never  read  in  bed  by  candle-light,  and  above  all  things 
detested  smoking.  These  assurances  seemed  to  bright- 
en the  cloud  upon  the  old  lady's  brow,  though  they  did 
not  dispel  it  altogether. 

She  made  no  more  difficulties,  and  only  shrugged  her 
shoulders  as  Julius  and  her  husband  proceeded  to  set- 
tle the  terms. 

Rejoiced  at  having  overcome  her  reluctance,  Julius 
hastened  back  to  the  inn  where  he  had  alighted  from  the 
diligence,  and  brought  away  his  luggage  on  his  own 
shoulders. 


92  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

He  had  soon  settled  all  his  effects  in  the  various  draw- 
ers and  presses  whicli  he  intended  them  to  occupy  ;  and 
being;  too  tired  to  go  out  any  more,  but  not  yet  disposed 
to  sleep,  he  thought  he  would  have  an  hour's  chat  with 
his  host,  by  name  Meister  Grone. 

Seeing  through  the  half-open  door  that  there  were  no 
guests  in  the  room,  he  entered,  and  found  Grone  and 
his  wife  sitting  close  together,  in  low,  but  earnest  dis- 
course, which  they  suddenly  broke  off  on  perceiving 
their  lodger. 

The  latter  endeavoured  to  establish  a  conversation, 
but  all  his  remarks  on  wind  and  weather  were  replied 
to  so  drily,  that  he  was  rather  disconcerted,  and  began 
to  play  with  the  little  girl,  who  crept  out  from  under 
the  table  with  her  hands  full  of  toys,  and  looked  up  in 
his  face  as  if  she  saw  in  it  something  that  promised  her 
a  good  playfellow.  The  acquaintance  was  soon  formed, 
and  Julius  made  himself  so  agreeable,  that  the  little 
damsel  was  regardless  of  every  body  else.  She  would 
not  leave  her  new  friend,  who  discovered  ere  long,  that 
in  gaining  the  favour  of  the  child,  he  had  gained  that  of 
the  ungracious  hostess.  Meister  Grone,  too,  smiled  to 
see  the  little  Christina  hang  about  Julius's  neck,  play- 
fully twisting  her  fingers  in  his  glossy  hair,  which,  stu- 
dent-fashion, curled  upon  his  shoulders. 

«Is  she  your  child?"  asked  Julius.  Both  the  old 
people  replied  with  a  melancholy  shake  of  the  head, 
and  Grone  related  how  they  had  been  bereaved  of  their 
only  son,  adding  that  Christina  was  the  child  of  his 
wife's  nephew,  an  idle  dissipated  man,  and  an  unkind 
father.  They  had  first  taken  his  infant  out  of  compass- 
ion, and  now  loved  it  as  their  own. 

Julius  applauded  their  kind  feelings,  and  had  soon 
occasion  to  remark,  that  tlieir  affection  for  the  little  girl 
approached  nearer  to  idolatry  than  to  parental  tender- 
ness. Christina's  childish  despotism  was  fully  exercised 
over  both  the  old  people — neither  ventured  to  contra- 
dict her.  No  wonder,  then,  if  she  tried  to  extend  her 
dominion  over  her  new  friend. 

"Don't  go  away,"  said  she,  clinging  to  his  neck,  as 
he  offered  to  put  her  down,  and  to  wish  his  hosts  good 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  93 

night     "  You  must  sup  with  Christina — Christina  loves 
you — ^" 

Grone  smiled.  The  aunt  repeated  her  little  niece's 
invitation,  which  Julius  frankly  accepted.  Frau  Sarah 
added  a  plate  and  napkin  for  him,  and  when  the  wooden 
clock  on  the  wall  struck  eight,  she  opened  the  door 
leading  to  the  kitchen  and  called  for  supper.  It  was 
brought  in,  and  Julius  became  acquainted  with  a  fourth 
inmate,  a  girl  of  about  eighteen,  whose  soft  and  touching 
beauty  Raphael  might  have  wished  to  paint,  and  which 
contrasted  strangely  with  her  coarse  attire,  and  her  ap- 
parent menial  situation.  When  every  body  was  helped, 
the  young  woman  curtesied  humbly,  and  without  speak- 
ing or  raising  her  eyes  from  the  ground,  took  a  seat 
opposite  the  student.  Julius  endeavoured  to  notice  her 
as  little  as  he  perceived  his  hosts  did,  and  particularly 
Frau  Sarah.  But  once — that  Meister  Grone  went  to 
the  buffet  for  some  choice  liquor  for  his  guest,  and  his 
wife  was  occupied  in  fishing  the  largest  plums  out  of 
the  dish  for  her  darling  Christina,  Julius  ventured  to 
raise  his  eyes  to  the  girl,  and  was  surprised  to  find  hers 
fixed  upon  him  with  an  undefinable  and  intense  express- 
ion. He  turned  away,  embarrassed,  and  before  he 
dared  look  again,  Frau  Sarah  had  despatched  her  to  set 
the  kitchen  in  order. 

*' Susan  is  an  orphan  cousin  of  my  husband's,"  said 
the  old  lady,  volunteering  her  information  to  the  student. 
''We  took  her  in,  when  her  mother  died,  and  keep  her 
out  of  charity — for  she  is  of  little  use.  Old  as  I  am,  I 
am  ten  times  more  active." 

'*  Blessed  are  the  merciful  I"  replied  Julius.  "  Allow 
me  to  drink  your  health,  and  that  of  the  object  of  your 
kindness." 

The  old  people  were  flattered  by  this  attention,  Meis- 
ter Grone  bowing  his  thanks,  returned  the  pledge. 
"Success  to  your  studies,  my  good  Herr.'^ 

''Julius  Eimar,"  rejoined  the  student,  "and  if  you 
wish  to  know  any  thing  of  my  parentage,  I  will  add, 
son  to  the  distinguished  preacher  of  that  name,  at 
Newstadt." 

"Newstadt!"  at  once  repeated  his  hosts.     Meister 


94  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

Grone's  head  sunk  thoughtfully  upon  his  hand,  and 
Frau  Sarah  rose  from  her  chair,  after  drawing  a  deep 
breath . 

Julius  looked  and  wondered,  but  seeing  that  neither 
of  them  was  disposed  to  speak,  played  a  little  with  the 
child  ;  and  after  wishing  them  all  a  friendly  good  night, 
retired  to  his  room. 

The  following  days  were  dedicated  to  the  most  es- 
sential matters  :  such  as  attending  the  classes,  the  de- 
livery of  introductory  letters,  purchasing  books,  and 
other  necessaries,  and  some  final  arrangements  in  his 
lodging. 

Sunday  brought  his  first  leisure  hours.  The  sabbath 
stillness  that  reigned  in  the  street,  where  a  door  was  but 
seldom  heard  to  open  or  shut,  and  where  passengers 
were  so  rare,  that  every  footstep  on  the  pavement  was 
attended  to,  reminded  young  Eimar  of  his  noiseless 
hosts,  and  on  his  return  from  church  he  went  to  visit 
them. 

The  sun  glanced  cheerfully  on  the  well-scoured  tin 
and  pewter,  the  canary  bird  sung  merrily  in  his  cage, 
and  Grone  and  his  wife  sat  by  the  stove,  attired  in  the 
holiday  garb  of  the  trading  classes.  No  dissolute  sab- 
bath-breakers were  to  be  seen  carousing  in  the  room  ; 
indeed  Julius  had  already  remarked  that  the  few  persons 
whom  he  had  accidentally  known  to  come  to  the  house, 
were  of  the  quietest  description. 

Christina,  decked  like  a  little  princess,  ran  up  de- 
lighted to  the  young  student,  and  asked  if  he  was  come 
to  dine  with  her.  He  hesitated,  but  the  old  people 
joined  so  heartily  in  requesting  him  to  share  their 
Christmas  goose,  that  he  could  not  refuse.  He  looked 
round,  in  hopes  of  seeing  Susan,  but  the  lovely  cousin 
was  not  there.  Frau  Sarah  not  only  prepared  the  table, 
but  brought  in  the  dinner  herself.  In  the  mean  time 
Meister  Grone  entertained  his  guest,  occasionally  en- 
deavouring to  repress  Christina's  importunities.  He 
related  to  our  student  how,  forty  years  before,  he  had 
come  a  poor  weaver  to  L — ,  and  that  Sarah,  then  the 
handsome  daughter  of  opulent  parents,  had  brought  him, 
for  her  marriage  portion,  the  house  ihey  now  inhabited, 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  95 

the  well-stocked  cellar,  and  the  good-will  of  the  retail 
wine  business. 

He  said  that  heaven  had  rewarded  their  exertions, 
by  permitting  them  to  pass  the  evening  of  their  days 
without  solicitude — that  they  were  both  contented  with 
their  lot,  except  when  their  love  for  little  Christina 
made  them  wish  themselves  rich  enough  to  leave  her 
such  a  provision  as  would  render  her  independent. 

'^Heaven  grants  to  the  contented  more  happiness 
with  a  little  than  often  accompanies  the  possession  of 
great  treasures,"  observed  Julius,  <<and  Christina  will 
still  have  great  cause  for  gratitude,  even  should  you 
have  nothing  to  leave  her." 

Grone  smiled.  '*It  is  eaj^y  for  you  to  talk  thus, 
Herr  Eimar;  you  are  a  rich  man's  son — your  manners 
betray  it,  even  more  than  the  texture  of  your  coat,  and 
your  massy  watch  chain.  You  have  all  you  want, 
without  thinking  from  whence  it  comes,  and  you  know 
little  of  the  troubles  of  those  who  have  to  work  for 
such  a  sum  as  you  would  think  nothing  of  spending  on 
your  amusement." 

As  he  said  this,  the  old  man's  countenance  wore  an 
expression  singularly  unpleasant  to  the  student,  who 
replied,  fondling  the  child — '<be  assured,  Herr  Grone, 
that  I  don't  begrudge  riches  to  you,  or  my  little  friend 
here — but  to  talk  of  something  else,  I  should  have  won- 
dered very  much  at  your  apparent  knowledge  of  my 
native  town,  and  of  my  father's  circumstances  if  I  had 
not  chanced  this  very  morning  to  discover  that  an  old 
schoolfellow  and  townsman  of  mine  had  lodged  here  ; 
from  whom  you  probably  derived  your  information." 

*' Your  schoolfellow  and  townsman!"  exclaimed  both 
Grone  and  Sarah,  with  surprise. 

<<  Yes,  truly,"  replied  the  student,  «  Philip  Witten- 
hoff,  whose  name  I  found  scratched  upon  one  of  the 
window-frames — was  my  schoolfellow  and  friend. 
What  is  more  curious  is,  that  I  afterwards  found  one 
of  my  own  letters  to  him  at  the  back  of  a  drawer  in  the 
Japan  bureau  ;  I  had  forgotten  his  address,  but  now 
that  I  recollect — " 

Disturbed  by  a  rustling  noise  behind  him,  the  student 


96  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

looked  round  and  beheld  Susan,  standing  like  a  statue, 
with  her  fixed  eyes  turned  towards  the  place  where  he 
sat.  Julius  irreparably  lost  the  thread  of  his  discourse, 
and  Frau  Sarah,  who  became  aware  of  her  relation's 
presence  at  the  same  moment,  hurried  out  of  the  room 
with  half  a  dozen  orders  to  the  kitchen. 

Susan  obeyed,  but  stopped  at  the  door,  looking  hard 
and  eagerly  at  the  student. 

'*Yes,"  said  Grone,  when  she  was  gone,  ^^  Herr 
Wittenhoff  did  lodge  with  me  for  some  time.^' 

*^  A  fine  young  man,"  added  Sarah,  something  de- 
jected in  her  tone  of  voice. 

"  A  fine  young  man,  indeed,"  returned  Julius.  "An 
excellent  fellow — every  one's  favourite.  There  have 
been  so  many  strange  reports  about  him  at  Newstadt, 
that  I  should  like  very  much  to  get  at  the  truth  of  the 
matter.  Perhaps  you  can  give  me  some  information. 
Why  did  he  leave  the  university  so  suddenly  ?  And 
where  did  he  go  ?    His  family  have  never  heard  of  him." 

Meister  Grone,  who  was  spending  all  his  energies  on 
the  dissection  of  the  goose,  wiped  his  forehead  with  the 
napkin,  and  shook  his  head.  His  wife  took  up  the 
subject. 

<«Dear  Herr  Eimar,  we  know  nothing  about  him 
either.  I  dare  say  your  friend  might  be  a  religious 
upright  man — indeed  we  are  generally  lucky  in  our 
lodgers,"  (bowing  to  the  student.)  '<  But  only  God 
can  see  into  men's  hearts.  Herr  Wittenhoff  came  into 
this  room  to  us  one  evening,  and  said,  in  his  usual  short 
manner  :  <  I  leave  this  to-morrow,  dear  Grone.  I  am 
glad  we  have  been  always  such  good  friends.  Here's 
your  money — good  night,  and  God  bless  you !'  We  saw 
no  more  of  him,  for  a  carriage  came  and  took  him  away 
early  the  next  morning,  before  we  were  awake.  We 
heard  afterwards  that  neither  carriage  nor  driver  belong- 
ed to  this  place." 

"Indeed!"  said  Julius,  a  little  disturbed  by  observing 
that  the  speaker  endeavoured  to  conceal  some  feeling 
of  embarrassment.  "But  did  you  make  no  inquiry 
about  him — or  is  a  lodger  no  more  thought  of  when  the 
latch  falls  behind  him?" 


OP    GERMAN    LIFE.  97 

"You  are  mistaken,  Herr  Student,  if  you  think  we 
have  forgotten  your  friend,"  said  Sarah,  '^on  the  con- 
trary," and  she  sighed  as  she  spoke,  <*we  think  of  him 
every  day." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  thought  Julius,  but  he  was 
shocked  by  the  sudden  paleness  that  overspread  Grone's 
face,  at  the  appearance  of  a  police  sergeant  at  the  door 
of  the  room. 

*'  Meister,  is  not  your  nephew,  Frank  Adams,  here  ?" 
he  asked,  in  an  authorative  tone,  and  casting  an  inquisi- 
tive glance  around  him,  Grone  seemed  unable  to  speak, 
and  Sarah  answered  shortly,  <<  No.  What's  the  mat- 
ter now  ?" 

The  sergeant  told  them  of  a  fray  in  which  Frank  had 
been  concerned  that  morning  at  a  tavern,  and  left  a  sum- 
mons for  him  to  appear  next  day  before  the  magistrate. 

As  the  policeman  retired,  old  Grone  shuddered. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  like  these  gentry,"  observed 
Julius.  Grone  shook  his  head  with  a  look  of  dismay — 
but  said  nothing. 

*'  Since  those  blue  coats  have  been  the  fashion,  there 
has  been  no  peace  or  comfort  for  us,"  said  Sarah. 

A  silence  of  several  minutes  ensued.  Julius  knew 
not  why  he  felt  so  ill  at  ease  in  the  company  of  these 
people,  and  thought  of  retiring. 

'<  Here's  father!"  exclaimed  Christina,  who  had  be- 
taken herself  to  the  window. 

*'  The  scoundrel  !"  muttered  Grone,  in  an  under 
voice. 

'^He  has  surely  been  drunk  already,  this  morning," 
sighed  Sarah.  The  signal  proved  that  she  was  not  mis- 
taken. 

A  tall,  strong-built  man,  in  the  working  dress  of  an 
artisant,  rolled  into  the  room,  and  fell  at  his  length  upon 
a  bench.     Christina  laughed,  and  the  Frau  scolded. 

**  What  have  you  been  at  now,  you  graceless  rogue  ? 
The  police  has  been  here  after  you.  Can't  you  be  con- 
tent to  hammer  your  lasts  and  heel  taps,  and  let  your 
neighbour's  bones  alone  ?  You  will  reach  the  gallows 
at  last,  if  you  go  on  in  this  manner." 

<'  Confound  the  gallows!"  returned  the  wretched  man. 
Vol.  II.— I 


98  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

''What  do  I  care?  If  I  am  hanged — damme,  but  you 
shall  both  swing  too." 

Christina  screamed,  and  took  refuge  in  the  lap  of  her 
aunt,  from  the  brawny  arm  which  her  father  tossed 
recklessly  as  he  spoke. 

Frau  Sarah  pacified  the  child,  and  began  to  reproach 
Frank  for  his  misconduct.  But  Grone  checked  her. 
Don't  you  see  that  he  is  quite  drunk,  Sarah.  Be  quiet; 
you  know  how  curious  the  neighbours  are.  It  would 
be  better  for  me  to  take  him  home  to  his  house." 

<' Right — do  so,  Whilhelm — take  him  to  his  poor 
wife,  and  stop  his  mouth." 

«*Ha!  ha!  ha!"  roared  the  drunken  shoemaker. 
'*  What's  that  about  stopping  my  mouth  ?  I've  no  mind 
to  have  my  mouth  stopped  after  your  fashion,  Gaifer 
Grone!  Ha!  ha!  ha!  mind  that  cousin.  Keep  off,  or 
I'll  cry  murder!" 

Disgusted  with  the  scene,  Julius  retired  to  his  room, 
and  left  his  hosts  endeavouring  to  calm  their  brutal 
nephew,  and  persuading  him  to  let  himself  be  con- 
ducted home. 

On  entering  his  chamber  the  student  walked  up  to 
the  window,  where  his  eye  immediately  fell  upon  the 
name  of  his  schoolfellow,  Philip  Wittenhoff,  which  had 
so  surprised  him  in  the  morning. 

With  his  mind  full  of  uneasy  thoughts,  he  threw  him- 
self on  the  sofa.  When  he  had  been  there  for  some 
time,  a  gentle  knock  preceded  the  entrance  of  Frau 
Sarah  into  the  room,  with  coffee.  She  apologized  has- 
tily for  her  nephew's  indecorous  deportment,  and  took 
her  leave,  saying  that  she  was  going  to  afternoon  ser- 
vice. Soon  after,  Meister  Grone  knocked  at  the  door, 
opened  it,  and  without  taking  his  hand  from  the  lock, 
requested  the  student  to  excuse  Frank  Adams'  mis- 
conduct. 

^' Say  no  more  about  it,  Meister  Grone;  if  you  will 
do  me  the  favour  to  come  in  for  a  moment,  I  will  get 
my  hat  and  cloak  and  accompany  you  to  church." 

*' Excuse  me,  sir!"  answered  Grone,  ''my  old  head 
needs  a  pillow  more  than  a  sermon.  I  must  take  my 
afternoon's  nap." 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  99 

"Well,  well;  but  come  in  for  a  moment,  and  see 
howr  nice  I  have  made  the  room.     I'll  wager  that  there 

is  not  an  old  maid   in  L who  can  show  a  more 

'point  device'  dwelling." 

The  old  man  advanced  a  step,  still  holding  the  lock 
of  the  door  in  his  hand,  cast  a  hurried  glance  around, 
and  declining  his  lodger's  invitation  to  sit  down,  betook 
himself  up  stairs  to  his  sleeping  room. 

"  There  is,  surely,  a  strange  air  of  mystery  and  fear 
about  these  people!"  thought  Julius,  as  he  turned  to- 
wards the  glass  to  arrange  his  shirt  collar,  in  the  inten- 
tion of  going  to  church.  He  was  taking  down  his  hat 
from  the  peg  when  he  heard  the  lock  of  the  door  rattle, 
as  if  somebody  tried  to  open  it.  Wondering  who  it 
could  be,  he  opened  it  himself  with  a  loud  *' Who's 
there  ?"  and  started  at  beholding  Susan  in  her  modest 
Sunday  attire.  He  bowed,  and  felt  at  a  loss  whether 
to  go  on  without  further  notice,  or  to  address  her. 
The  gir]  clasped  her  hands  with  an  onxious  and  im- 
ploring look.  Julius  stepped  back  into  his  room,  and 
gently  asked  her  what  she  wanted,  and  whether  he 
could  do  her  any  service. 

Susan  made  him  no  reply,  but  listened  and  looked  up 
the  stairs  by  which  Grone  had  ascended.  All  being  quiet, 
she  tremblingly  entered  the  student's  apartment.  *'  Par- 
don me,  Herr  Eimar,  said  she  to  the  wondering,  yet 
pleased  student,  in  a  tone  so  low,  that  she  might  have 
been  supposed  afraid  of  her  own  voice — '<I  hope  I  am 
not  doing  wrong,  especially  to-day,  but  such  another 
opportunity  will  not  occur  for  a  week.  Meister  Grone 
is  asleep,  and  his  wife  gone  to  church  with  Christina. 
If  I  could  be  sure  that  you  would  not  betray  me,  sir, 
I  would  reveal  something." 

*'How  could  I  betray  you,  my  good  girl?"  replied 
Julius,  whose  curiosity  was  now  raised  to  the  utmost ; 
for  no  sportive  smile  played  around  her  mouth,  to  in- 
dicate levity  of  purpose  ;  on  the  contrary,  her  pale 
features  expressed  only  grief  and  agitation. 

Her  language  was  not,  perhaps,  refined  enough  to 
please  a  fastidious  ear  ;  yet  there  was  a  tone  of  simpli- 
city and  truthfulness  in  what  she  said,  that  interested 
our  student  quite  as  much  as  her  beauty. 


100  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

She  opened  the  conversation  by  drawing  a  miniature 
from  her  bosom,  and  asking  Julius  if  he  knew  it! 

"Philip  Wittenhoff!"  he  exclaimed — "the  same  of 
whom  I  was  speaking  below.'^ 

"  I  heard  all  the  good  you  said  of  poor  Wittenhoff," 
returned  Susan,  wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  *«I 
was  sent  out  of  the  room,  but  I  stood  at  the  door,  till  I 
had  heard  all.  Herr  Eimar,  you  are  the  first  person 
to  whom  I  have  opened  my  lips  about  him,  since  he 
left  this  three  years  ago.  Since  that  time  God  only 
has  heard  me  name  him  in  my  prayers  ;  but  you  are 
his  friend,  and  I  can  speak  of  him  to  you,  if  you  will 
allow  it." 

"  Most  willingly,"  replied  Julius,  laying  aside  his  hat 
and  cloak,  ''most  willingly  shall  I  give  up  going  to 
church  for  my  friend's  sake  and  yours.  Sit  down,  and 
now  tell  me  what  you  have  to  say." 

Susan  blushed  slightly,  and  dropped  her  eyes  on  her 
fingers,  with  which  she  was  twisting  the  strings  of  her 
apron. 

"  You  must  know,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  scarcely 
above  her  breath,  ''that — that — I  loved  Philip  Witten- 
hoff  before  he  had  been  a  month  in  our  house.  He  was 
so  good  and  gentle.  But  the  last  thought  I  had,  was 
that  he  could  care  for  a  poor  girl  like  me  ;  and  I  was 
satisfied  and  happy,  to  serve  and  wait  upon  him.  One 
day,  however — it  was  a  Sunday,  and  my  relations  were 
gone  to  church— and  I  thought  him  gone  too.  He 
came  home,  and  called  me  into  his  room,  where  he  told 
me  he  loved  me  ;  and  asked  if  I  would  be  his  wife. 
It  was  so  unexpected,  that  I  could  not  collect  my 
thoughts  ;  I  felt  ashamed  and  happy,  and  confounded, 
all  at  once  ;  and  I  was  obliged  to  go  out  of  the  room  to 
recover  myself,  without  making  him  any  reply.  It  was 
some  days  before  I  saw  him  alone  again.  Indeed  I 
avoided  it  ;  for  I  could  scarce  believe,  good  as  he  was, 
but  that  he  had  been  jesting  with  me.  He  was  taken 
very  ill,  and  I  was  desired  to  carry  him  some  tea.  He 
seemed  to  be  in  such  great  suffering,  that  my  heart  was 
full.  He  repeated  what  he  had  said  the  preceding 
Sunday.     I  felt  he  was  in  earnest,  and  I  was  able  t© 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  101 

tell  him  all  that  had  passed  in  my  mind.  It  seemed  to 
give  him  great  joy,  and  to  make  him  forget  how  ill  he 
was.  *Dear  Susan,'  he  said  to  me,  '  I  know  of  nothing 
that  either  of  us  have  done  to  deserve  being  unhappy,  and 
yet  I  see  no  prospect  of  my  being  able  to  marry  at  pre- 
sent. My  stepfather  would  force  me  to  adopt  a  learned 
profession  against  my  inclination  ;  and  1  must  obey  be- 
cause my  mother  has  nothing  to  give  me,  while  he  is  rich 
and  childless.  It  w^ould  break  her  heart  if  I  was  to  dis- 
oblige him.  However,  let  me  hope  that  you  will  con- 
tinue pious  and  industrious  and  faithful  to  your  Philip; 
and  the  time  will  come  when  I  shall  be  able  to  deliver 
you  from  this  house  of  bondage.'  He  alluded  to  my 
situation  here.  I  attended  to  his  wishes,  and  I  submit- 
ted without  repining  to  the  harshness  of  Cousin  Grone 
and  his  wife,  as  for  God's  sake  an  unfriended  orphan 
should  do.  But  I  had  hope  now  to  support  me  under 
all  my  troubles,  and  they  became  endurable." 

Susan  paused,  and  gave  a  sigh  to  the  past ;  Julius 
felt  more  and  more  interested  in  his  visitor,  who  re- 
sumed her  simple  narrative. 

^*  Thus  we  loved  one  another  truly  for  nearly  a 
year,  without  its  being  known  to  any  one  ;  for  my 
mistress  was  so  much  engaged  and  occupied  by  little 
Christina,  whom  she  adopted  about  that  time,  and  who 
was  only  beginning  to  walk  in  leading-strings,  that  she 
paid  little  attention  to  me. 

<'  One  day  Philip  received  a  letter  sealed  with  black. 
He  remained  several  hours  in  his  room,  and  then  ap- 
peared with  his  eyes  red  with  weeping.  His  mother 
was  dead. 

"  About  a  fortnight  after  came  another — a  thick  let- 
ter, which  he  opened  and  read  before  me.  '  Susan,' 
he  said,  '  all  my  hopes  of  a  provision  are  at  an  end^ 
my  step-father's  property  has  been  destroyed  by  fire  ; 
and  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  caused  by  the  shock,  has  termi- 
nated his  life.  The  creditors  have  seized  the  little  that 
was  left,  and  in  this  paper  is  contained  all  I  have  in  the 
world.'  He  showed  me  a  strip  of  thin  paper,  which 
he  told  me  was  an  order  upon  the  bank  for  six  hundred 
thalers.     This,  to  me,  seemed  a  large  sum  ;   and  to  his 

VOL.  II. — I  2 


102  LIGHTS    AND   SHADOWS 

question  of  whether  he  might  make  his  proposals  for 
me  to  my  employers  and  relations,  I  said,  'Why  not? 
if  you  are  still  disposed  to  marry  such  a  poor  girl  as 
me,  now  that  you  are  grown  rich.'  He  laughed  at  my 
answer,  and  went  down  to  talk  to  cousin  Grone. 

'*My  heart  beat,  and  my  cheeks  burnt,  when,  after 
some  time,  my  mistress  came  into  the  kitchen,  and 
said  angrily,  'What's  this  I  hear  between  you  and  the  stu- 
dent, Susan  ?  Let  me  hear  you  speaking  another  word 
to  him — a  pretty  business,  indeed,  to  think  of  marrying 
a  gentleman!' 

''I  could  not  help  crying,  but  I  said  nothing.  In 
the  evening,  as  Herr  Wittenhoff  was  coming  home 
from  the  bankers,  with  a  bag  of  money  under  his  arm, 
he  stopped  at  the  kitchen  window,  where  I  sat  watch- 
ing for  him,  as  I  used  to  do  whenever  I  had  time. 
<  Your  relations,'  he  said,  'have  given  me  a  positive 
denial — the  foolish  people  object  to  me,  because  I  am 
a  student,  and  of  a  rank  of  life  above  them  ;  but  I'll 
throw  away  my  gown,  and  take  to  something  else,  that 
will  enable  me  to  maintain  a  wife  ;  only  be  patient  and 
faithful,  dear  Susan!  sunshine  will  come  at  last.^ 

"  I  could  not  answer,  my  heart  was  too  full  ;  so  he 
went  on  to  say,  if  I  would  go  with  him  to  America,  it 
would  not  be  difficult  for  him  to  obtain  a  passage  in  one 
of  the  American  ships  then  in  the  harbour,  under  a 
borrowed  name.  *By  half-past  seven  to-morrow  even-n 
ing,'  said  he,  'I  shall  know  something  positive  to  tell 
you.' 

"At  that  moment  I  heard  my  mistress  coming  to- 
wards the  kitchen,  and  calling  ^  Susan.'  I  could  only 
give  my  hand  in  token  of  consent,  and  hastily  shut  the 
casement." 

Susan  paused  again  in  her  narrative,  and  wept.  "  I 
give  you  his  very  words,  Herr  Student,"  she  continued, 
"  for  I  often  repeat  them  over  and  over  to  myself  when 
1  am  alone.     I  never  heard  his  dear  voice  again." 

"Never  !"  exclaimed  Julius,  with  surprise. 

"Never!"  said  Susan,  with  a  melancholy  shake  of 
the  head.  "  Isaw  him  again  twice  the  next  day.  The 
first  time  was  at  noon,  when  he  was  going  out  of  the 


OF    GERMAN  LIFE.  103 

house  with  a  light  step.  At  four  o'clock  he  returned. 
I  was  watching  at  the  window  ;  he  saw  me,  and  kissed 
his  hand  cheerfully  ;  and  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
afterwards,  as  I  passed  his  door  to  go  into  the  store-room, 
I  heard  the  clink  of  hard  thalers  on  his  table.  I  then 
had  to  go  for  water  to  the  fountain  down  the  street,  and 
at  my  return  Frau  Sarah  sent  me  off  to  an  old  sick  re- 
lation of  hers,  desiring  me  to  stay  with  her,  until  a  nurse 
she  was  going  to  hire  came  to  relieve  me.  The  order 
fell  like  lead  upon  my  heart,  but  I  had  no  alternative 
and  obeyed.  The  sick  woman  lived  a  good  way  from 
this.  I  went — and  oh,  Herr  Eimar!  how  anxiously  did 
I  count  the  hours  as  they  chimed  from  the  town-house 
clock!  At  last,  just  after  midnight  had  struck,  the  nurse 
came,  and  I  ran  homx3  as  fast  as  1  could.  All  was  quiet 
in  the  house  ;  and  I  wondered  to  see  Philip's  windows 
dark,  for  I  had  felt  sure  that  he  would  wait  for  me,  to 
tell  me  what  he  had  done  about  the  ship.  I  forgot, 
poor  foolish  girl  that  I  was,  that  he  could  neither  know 
whither  I  had  gone,  nor  when  I  was  to  come  back.  I 
went  to  bed  wretched  and  uneasy.  It  was  long  before  I 
fell  asleep  ;  and  when  I  arose  in  the  morning,  they  told 
me  Wittenhoff  was  gone.  But,  dear  Herr  Eimar,  do 
you  think  it  likely  he  would  go  away  without  saying 
*good  bye'  to  me  }  I  had  done  nothing  to  offend  him. 
He  knew  that  he  was  the  only  trust  and  comfort  of  my 
life  ;  and  he  was  too  good  and  kind  thoughtlessly  to  give 
me  pain!  Neither  did  a  carriage  take  him  away — car- 
riages come  into  this  retired  street  so  rarely,  that  it  is 
impossible  for  one  to  have  stopped  at  our  door  unseen 
and  unheard  by  any  of  our  neighbours.  Frau  Sarah 
would  not  suffer  me  to  go  into  his  room,  but  cleaned  it 
all  out  herself,  and  locked  it  up  ;  and  it  was  not  till  a  year 
after  that  she  sent  me  to  prepare  it  for  a  new  lodger.  I 
looked  about  as  if  I  had  expected  to  find  somebody  there, 
but  I  found  nothing  except  his  name  scratched  upon  that 
window-pane." 

<*  But,  my  good  Susan,"  said  the  student,  after  some 
pause,  ^*  what  do  you  mean  by  all  this  ?  You  frighten 
me — such  a  mysterious  disappearance  is  indeed  calcu- 
lated to  excite  uneasiness.  What  do  you  think  of  it 
yourself?" 


104  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

"  Herr  Eimar,"  she  replied,  in  a  low  inward  tone,  <<  I 
don't  believe  that  Philip  went  away  voluntarily.  At 
the  time  he  was  here,  an  old  sea-captain  used  to  frequent 
the  house — a  strange  old  man,  who  used  to  joke  with  me, 
and  often  to  say — I  don't  know  whether  he  meant  it  in 
earnest  or  not — that  I  must  be  his  wife.  His  vessel  was 
in  the  harbour,  and  he  had  often  asked  me  jokingly  to  go 
on  board.  After  Philip's  disappearance,  his  manner 
towards  me  changed  entirely — he  became  gloomy,  mo- 
rose, and  sometimes  even  malicious.  He  and  cousin 
Grone  often  used  to  whisper  together,  looking  at  me  all 
the  while,  and  often  torment  me  with  speaking  in  rid- 
dles, jeering  at  me  because  I  could  not  understand  what 
they  meant.  I  have  often  thought  of  what  Frank  said 
one  night  below,  when  he  was  overcome  with  drink 
and  anger,  and  quarrelling  with  Grone,  '  Though  you 
bring  up  Christina,'  said  he,  *1  am  still  her  father,  and 
have  a  right  to  put  in  my  word  when  I  please — Pm  not 
so  easily  got  out  of  the  way  as  some  people — I  am  not 
Philip  Wittenhoff,  and  not — '  Grone  interrupted  him 
angrily,  and  I  am  sure  he  looked  frightened  to  death. 
He  took  some  money  out  of  his  pocket,  and  gave  it  to 
Frank,  who  said  no  more.  Now  all  I  ask  you,  Herr 
Eimar,  is,  whether  I  can  be  easy  about  the  fate  of  your 
friend  and  mine?  Am  I  to  believe  that  he  abandoned 
me  cruelly,  or  that — I  will  not  say  what  I  have  often 
imagined." 

<^  My  brain  is  on  fire  with  the  thoughts  you  have 
suggested,"  said  the  student,  starting  from  his  chair, 
and  walking  about  the  room,  <*  what  a  mysterious  his- 
tory! and  how  it  agrees  with  my  dark  forebodings?" 

<<  Hush?  not  so  loud,  Herr  Eimar,"  said  Susan.  "My 
fear  has  always  been,  that  the  ship-captain,  who  left  this 
shortly  after,  and  has  never  been  here  since,  kidnapped 
Philip  for  the  Dutch  service  in  the  East  Indies.  1  have 
often  heard  how  men  are  carried  off,  and  sold  in  Hol- 
land for  soldiers." 

<<  And  you  say  that  Philip  left  nothing  behind,  not  a 
line  by  which  he  might  be  traced  ?" 

"  Not  a  line,  nothing — but  what  am  I  saying,  sir  ? 
How  coruld  I  forget  to  tell  you,  that  about  five  months 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  105 

after  his  departure,  Frau  Grone  being  sick  and  confined 
to  her  bed,  I  was  sent  to  her  store-room,  which  she 
never  suffered  any  body  but  herself  to  enter,  for  some 
particular  cordial,  and,  in  looking  about,  I  spied  Witten- 
hoff's  trunk  in  a  corner,  and  several  articles  which  I 
knew  to  have  been  his  property,  lying  on  the  floor. 
I  felt  ready  to  drop  at  the  sight,  and  I  dared  not  trust 
myself  to  touch  any  thing,  or  to  mention  what  I  had  seen. 
And  now  I  only  ask  you,  Herr  Student,  to  observe  how 
all  these  things  hang  together,  and  if,  as  is  likely  from 
your  condition,  you  have  a  large  acquaintance,  to  en- 
deavour through  them  to  make  such  inquiries  in  Holland 
as  may  lead  to  the  discovery  of  poor  Philip.  His  other 
friends  seem  to  have  been  strangely  neglectful  of  him, 
but  you,  sir,  may  perhaps  be  still  able  to  rescue  him 
from  misfortune,  and  I  shall  not  die,  or  what  is  worse, 
live  broken-hearted/' 

Julius  was  so  confounded  by  what  he  had  heard  that  he 
was  incapable  of  answering,  when  a  sharp  knock  at  the 
door  startled  them  both,  and  without  waiting  for  the 
student  to  say  "Come  in,"  Frau  Grone,  who  had  return- 
ed from  church  and  let  herself  into  the  house  by  a  mas- 
ter-key, made  her  appearance.  She  had  missed  Susan 
below,  and  inferring  that  she  must  be  with  the  lodger, 
sought  her  in  his  room.  Susan  turned  pale  at  the  tone 
in  which  the  Frau  addressed  her.  *<  What  are  you  do- 
ing here,  girl!  Is  this  the  way  you  mind  the  house  when 
I  am  abroad,  and  disturb  the  gentleman  with  your  idle 
chatter  ?" 

*'  Excuse  me,  Frau  Grone,"  said  the  student,  hasten- 
ing to  relieve  Susan's  consternation  by  replying,  '«it  is 
my  fault  if  she  is  absent  from  her  post.  I  am  just  come 
home  from  church,  and  being  thirsty,  I  called  to  her  to 
bring  me  some  fresh  water." 

Saying  this,  he  pointed  to  a  glass,  which  luckily 
chanced  to  be  on  the  table;  this,  and  his  grave  uncon- 
cerned manner  satisfied  the  angry  mistress,  who,  in  milder 
terms,  desired  Susan  to  go  down  stairs,  and  take  off 
Christina's  pelisse  and  bonnet. 

When  she  was  gone  Frau  Grone  shut  the  door,  and 
drew  nearer  to  her  lodger  with  a  confident  air. 


106  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

*'  I  have  too  good  an  opinion  of  you,  Herr  Eimar,  to 
entertain  any  of  those  fears  with  respect  to  Susan  which 
the  conduct  of  young  students  in  general  might  justify." 

<<  You  do  me  but  justice,  Frau  Grone,''  he  replied, 
rather  drily. 

"  But  at  the  same,"  she  continued,  "  I  must  advise 
you  not  to  mind  her ;  she  is  a  poor  half-witted  thing, 
and  often  talks  very  wildly — though  I  can't  say  there 
is  any  harm  in  her." 

^andeed!" 

"  It  is  very  true,  sir  ;  she  sometimes  fancies  that  she 
has  had  great  misfortunes,  and  mopes  herself  and  every 
body  else  to  death." 

Julius  was  silent,  and  she  resumed  : — 

<*  And  yet  she  has  no  cause  to  complain.  She  is  an 
orphan,  to  be  sure,  and  penniless — but  then  she  has  a 
comfortable  home  with  us.  When  we  are  gone,  it  is, 
that  she  will  find  the  difference  between  relations  and 
strangers.'* 

"No  doubt,  Frau  Grone." 

"We  have  nothing  to  leave  her  but  good  clothes,  and 
an  example  of  industry  and  honesty.  On  this  account 
it  is  that  I  urge  her  daily,  and  all  day  long  to  bestir 
herself.  But  people  never  know  when  they  are  well 
off,  till  they  are  worse." 

<«  True,"  said  the  student.  ^^  But  still  I  would  rather 
be  in  Christina's  place  than  Susan's." 

^' You  mean  on  account  of  what  she  is  to  inherit  at 
my  husband's  death,  and  mine.  Ah,  Herr  Student, 
people  think  us  much  richer  than  we  are. — I  wish,  for 
the  poor  dear's  sake,  that  they  were  right.  But,  in- 
deed, we  are  far  from  it,  although  we  let  slip  no  means 
of  increasing  the  little  nest-egg  we  intend  for  her." 

^'' Let  slip  no  means!"  re-echoed  Julius  slowly. 
"  Frau  Grone,  I  believe  that  God  will  direct  and  pros- 
per all  honest  endeavours." 

The  Frau  courtesied  respectfully,  and  bidding  her 
lodger  ''  good  evening,"  retired  to  her  avocations  below. 

Julius  was  now  alone  with  his  own  thoughts,  the 
complexion  of  which  was  sombred  by  the  gloom  of  ad- 
vancing twilight.     All  was  still  within,  and  not  a  step 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  107 

was  to  be  heard  without  the  house.  For  the  first  time 
this  comfortable  room  seemed  dismal.  He  lighted  his 
]amp  earlier  than  usual,  let  down  the  window-curtains, 
and  set  down  to  write  a  letter.  After  tearing  two 
sheets  of  paper,  he  threw  away  the  pen.  He  opened  a 
book,  which  he  had  purchased  the  day  before — but, 
though  his  eyes  read  the  first  page  a  dozen  times,  his 
understanding  had  not  taken  in  a  word  of  it.  At  last 
it  became  impossible  for  him  to  fix  his  eyes  any  more 
than  his  attention.  They  wandered,  in  spite  of  his 
will,  into  the  dark  recesses  of  the  room.  His  breath 
was  oppressed,  and  cold  creepings  came  over  him.  He 
removed  the  shade  from  the  lamp,  but  still  there  was 
not  light  enough  ;  and  he  lit  a  pair  of  candles  which 
ornamented  the  mantel-piece.  The  illumination  cheered 
him  a  little,  and  he  sat  down  again  to  think  coolly  over 
all  that  he  had  heard.  But  these  meditations  only 
brought  to  his  mind  all  the  stories,  authenticated  or 
fictitious,  that  he  had  ever  heard  or  read,  respecting 
apparitions,  dreams,  and  presages. 

'<Can  Susan's  statement  be  false,  or  her  words  mad- 
ness?" he  said,  sometimes  uttering  his  thoughts  aloud. 
**  Impossible!  Truth  beams  from  her  eye — and  her 
words  are  too  connected  to  be  uttered  by  a  maniac. 
Why  is  Wittenhoff's  form  presented  so  distinctly  to 
my  eyes,  whichever  way  I  turn  them  ?  Has  fate 
brought  me  hither  to  pity  or  revenge  him  ?  What  is 
it  that  is  expected  of  me  ?" 

During  this  soliloquy  the  student  had  risen  from  his 
chair,  and  was  pacing  the  room  with  his  hands  behind 
his  back,  and  his  eyes  bent  on  the  ground.  As  he 
spoke  the  last  word,  he  stopped.  The  board  on  which 
his  foot  rested  was  fresher  in  colour  than  the  rest,  and 
seemed  to  be  newly  put  in.  In  the  adjoining  ones 
marks  of  the  plane,  through  which  stains  were  visible, 
attracted  his  attention.  He  snatched  up  a  light,  knelt 
down,  and  ascertained  that  what  had  caught  his  eye, 
were  really  dark  red  stains,  in  order  to  efface  which  the 
board  had  doubtless  been  planed. 

The  student's  hair  stood  on  end.  Trembling  all 
over  he  returned  to  the  sofa,  and  covered  his  fare  with 
his  hands. 


108  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

<*  Am  I  then  the  sport  of  my  own  fantastic  brain,  or 
is  this  fearful  reality  ?  It  must  be  so.  The  mysteri- 
ousness  of  the  old  people — the  disappearance  of  Witten- 
hoff — his  trunk  in  Frau  Grone's  possession — the  six 
hundred  thalers  too  received  just  before  his  departure — 
a  large  sum  to  those  who  would  Met  slip  no  means'  of 
augmenting  the  heritage  of  an  adopted  child. — *  Let 
slip  no  means!' — Strange  words! — And  Wittenhoff's 
coffer  in  their  hands! — those  stains  on  the  floor — the 
ship-captain,  too,  his  rival — the  diunken  nephew's 
mysterious  threats  this  morning.  What  a  mass  of  crime 
is  laid  bare  to  my  view!" 

Such  was  the  train  of  ideas  which  occupied  our  stu- 
dent's mind  until  a  late  hour.  At  last  he  undressed 
himself,  and  strove  to  forget  these  horrors  in  sleep. 
But  no  ; — the  night  wore  away  in  devising  means  to 
clear  up  the  mystery  that  enveloped  the  fate  of  his 
friend.  Morning  broke  without  his  having  come  to 
any  resolution  ;  he  got  up,  and  having  looked  shudder- 
ing on  the  stained  floor,  went  to  the  window.  All 
without  was  wintry  and  desolate.  At  last  a  man  ap- 
proached the  house:  it  was  Frank,  the  shoemaker.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  imagine  a  figure  more  indicative 
of  brutal  intemperance  than  his.  The  dejection  which 
succeeds  the  excitement  of  drunkenness,  and  the  cares 
attendant  on  an  empty  pocket,  marked  his  drawn  fea- 
tures. He  slunk  along  close  to  the  wall,  as  if  afraid,  or 
ashamed  to  be  seen.  A  sudden  thought  flashed  across 
the  student's  mind,  and,  throwing  up  the  window,  he 
cried — <<Meister  Frank,  come  up  here;  I  have  work 
for  you." 

<<  I  have  one  word  to  say  to  my  uncle,  sir,  after  which 
I'll  wait  on  you." 

But  the  "  one  word"  produced  a  great  many,  and  to- 
wards the  end  of  the  colloquy,  very  loud  ones.  Grone 
spoke  low  and  temperately — Frank  more  and  more 
vehemently  ;  and  at  last,  banging  the  door  after  him, 
he  rushed  up  stairs  to  the  student's  chamber. 

<<  I  want  a  pair  of  boots,"  said  the  latter. 

^<  I  am  the  man  to  serve  you,"  replied  Frank,  taking 
out  his  measure. — "I  hope  your  reverence  has  forgiven 


I 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  109 

me  for  being  a  little  noisy  below  yesterday.  A  poor 
artisan,  with  nothing  but  his  trade  to  support  him,  may 
be  excused,  now  and  then,  for  trying  to  drown  care  in 
a  glass  of  wine." 

«« Let  us  say  no  more  about  it,  Meister  :  forgiveness 
belongs  to  my  calling — Perhaps  you  would  like  a  glass 
of  good  Dantzic  this  cold  morning  ;  if  so,  my  travelling 
flask  there  is  full — help  yourself." 

'« Thanks  to  your  reverence,"  said  the  shoemaker: 
and,  stroking  the  black,  unkempt  locks  from  his  fore- 
head, still  glowing  from  the  late  dispute,  he  put  the 
flask  unceremoniously  to  his  mouth,  and  took  a  long 
draught. 

<•  Comfortable!"  ejaculated  Frank,  clapping  his  breast 
with  his  broad,  unwashed  hand — "  Comfortable  stuff, 
after  the  gall  old  Grone  gave  me  below.     D — n— " 

'^Hush!  hush!  friend — don't  swear:  you  have  cre- 
ditable people  here  for  your  relations  ;  you  should  re- 
spect the  tranquillity  of  their  house." 

'^Hem!  I  am  very  dry  this  morning— Here's  to 
you,  sir.  Tranquillity  is  a  cheaper  article  under  uncle 
Grone's  roof  than  you  think  for — '  All's  not  gold  that 
glitters.'  I  know  who  could  strip  the  wolf  of  the 
slieep's  skin.  The  fools  think  that  in  taking  charge  of 
Christina  they  are  quits  with  me  ;  but  they  must  help 
me  too,  if  they  want  me  to  hold  my  tongue.  You 
know  why  they  took  the  child  ?" 

'^  My  good  friend,  I  neither  know  or  care  about  your 
family  quarrels — " 

^'  Family  quarrels,  forsooth! — The  whole  town  would 
be  in  an  uproar  if  I  were  to  tell.  And  the  old  miser 
denies  me  the  ten  thalers  I  have  been  fined  for  breaking 
Hans  Piehler's  head  yesterday.  Any  one  else  would 
have  peached.  If  you  had  not  behaved  like  a  gentle- 
man to  me,  Herr  Student,  I  could  tell  you — But  I  won't 
make  you  uncomfortable." 

<<  You  are  not  very  sober  now,  I  fear,  Meister  Frank. 
What  can  you  know  that  w^ould  affect  my  peace  ?" 

''  More  than  you  think  of,  sir.     If  these  walls  could 
speak,  you  would  not  be  so  much  at  your  ease  as  you  seem 
Vol,  II.— K 


110  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

now.     Have  you  seen  nothing  suspicious? — Well  then, 
rij  tell  you— No  ;— I  won't—" 

^'Pray  go  on.  Do  you  intimate  that  any  danger 
threatens  the  occupier  of  this  apartment  ?" 

Frank  cast  a  shy  glance  round  the  room,  and  then 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  discoloured  blood  which  had  ex- 
cited the  student's  suspicions.  He  was  about  to  point 
to  it,  but  drew  back  his  hand,  and  said  with  the  tone  of 
one  conscience-smitten — ^'  Herr  student,  you  are  a  scho- 
lar and  a  clergyman,  and  of  course  afraid  of  neither 
man  nor  devil-;  but  I  could  tell  you  of  people  who 
would  not  come  into  this  room  for  the  world,  even  by 
day,  and  much  less  by  night. — I,  for  one,  am  not  easily 
frightened  ;  but  try  my  old  hunks  of  an  uncle — he  is 
as  much  afraid  of  this  room  as  he  is  of  a  police  officer. 
He  would  sooner  encounter  the  devil  than  either.'^ 

"  You  speak  in  riddles,  friend — say  what  you  are 
about  at  once,  and  have  done." 

<<  Well,  sir,  1  only  tell  you  that  you  are  not  the  first 
student  who  had  been  lodged  here.  There  was  a 
poor  young  fellow  named  WittenhofT,  whom  his  ill  luck 
brought  to  this  house — I  advise  you  to  look  cut  for  an- 
other lodging  as  fast  as  you  can,  and  in  another  quarter 
of  the  town.  This  is  too  solitary.  The  few  habitable 
houses  are  far  asunder,  and  their  occupants  bad  people. 
A  man  might  be  murdered  in  the  open  street  at  noon 
day,  and  nobody  be  the  wiser." 

Julius  retreated  horror-struck  from  the  fellow,  who 
continued  coolly  and  familiarly  :  <*  A  man  need  only 
get  his  enemy  into  one  of  these  houses  ;  he  is  soon 
done  for,  and  then  with  a  stone  about  his  neck, 
the  body  lies  as  soft  at  the  bottom  of  the  canal  as  in  any 
Christian  church-yard." 

<«  Meister  Frank!"  cried  Grone,  from  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  The  miscreant  dropped  the  empty  flask  out  of 
his  hands,  and  lowered  his  voice. 

<*  Another  time  I'll  tell  your  reverence  more.  I 
hope,  from  his  calling  me,  that  old  skin-flint  has  thought 
better  of  it.  It  is  well  for  him,  or  the  gentleman  up 
there  at  the  senate-house  should  have  heard  a  story  about 
the  French  emigrants  that  once  lodged  here. — However, 


OF    GERMAN  LIFE.  Ill 

it  may  do  another  time. — Your  servant,  sir,  for  the  pre- 
sent. Uncle  will  wonder  what  keeps  me  with  you  so 
long.     I'll  bring  the  boots  home  on  Thursday — " 

Frank  went  down  in  high  good-humour,  leaving  the 
student,  on  the  contrary,  in  great  agitation.  The  uncle 
and  nephew's  voices  were  heard  in  low  tones,  accom- 
panied by  the  chink  of  money,  after  which  the  house 
door  banged  to. 

"By  all  I  can  see  and  hear,"  thought  Julius,  ^*I  am 
fallen  into  a  den  of  cut-throats,  and  the  wisest  mea- 
sure would  certainly  be  to  remove  with  all  the  little 
property  that  may,  perhaps,  have  already  excited  these 
people's  cupidity.  But  would  it  not  be  faithless  and 
dastardly  in  me  to  fly  without  seeking  to  clear  up  the 
mystery  connected  with  the  disappearance  of  WittenhofT. 
I  fear  the  poor  youth  has  had  a  worse  fate  than  being 
carried  to  Batavia.  At  least,  if  there  has  been  foul 
work  it  shall  not  go  unpunished  !" 

With  such  thoughts  our  student  pursued  his  way  to 
the  University,  where  he  heard  but  little  of  the  theologi- 
cal lecture.  He  afterv/ards  made  some  inquiries  as  to 
the  character  of  his  host,  at  the  eating  house  where 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  dining  ;  and  learned,  that  though 
Grone's  cabaret  was  but  little  resorted  to,  and  only  by 
persons  of  an  inferior  class,  no  harm  was  known  of  him. 
Some  reports  of  his  being  engaged  in  smuggling  trans- 
actions had  been  at  one  time  circulated  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood ;  but  as  there  was  no  better  authority  for  them 
than  the  word  of  his  nephew,  Frank  Adam,  a  man  of 
notoriously  bad  character,  they  excited  little  attention. 

Returning  home  towards  evening  dissatisfied,  and  ill 
at  ease,  he  was  amazed  to  find  the  usually  deserted  street 
crowded  with  people.  They  seemed  all  of  the  lowest 
description,  and  were  assembled  before  Frank  Adam's 
house,  from  which  proceeded  sounds  of  distress  and  la- 
mentations. He  met  Susan  pressing  through  the  crowd 
in  great  agitation.  Julius  caught  her  by  the  arm,  and 
asked  what  was  the  matter  ? 

*»  Ah  !   Herr  Student!  Meister  Frank  is  dying." 

^'  Dying!  what  has  happened  to  him  ?" 

*^  He  has  been  just  brought  home  mortally  wounded 


112  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

from  the  Dolphin.  Hans  Piehler,  whom  he  beat  yes- 
terday, fell  upon  him  when  he  was  too  drunk  to  defend 
himself.  Meister  Grone  sent  me  to  see  whether  he  was 
alive  or " 

Without  waiting  to  hear  the  end,  Julius  made  his  way 
into  the  house,  where  the  wounded  man  lay  on  a  mis- 
erable truckle  bed.  The  Minister  was  coming  out  of  the 
room,  Frank  having  obstinately,  and  even  furiously,  re- 
jected the  consolations  of  religion.  A  phlegmatic  doctor 
had  also  abandoned  him  ;  and  his  wife  lay  in  strong  hys- 
terics at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  surrounded  by  wo- 
men out  of  the  neighbouring  houses. 

The  student's  blood  froze  at  the  sight  of  the  mangled 
wretch,  whose  eyes  opened,  and  whose  senses  seemed 
to  return,  at  his  approach.  The  dying  man  murmured 
some  almost  inarticulate  sounds,  of  which  Julius  could 
only  distinguish  '^  Uncle — the  blood — too  late — no 
money — for — " 

A  convulsion  seized  him,  and  after  some  dreadful 
struggles  he  expired.  In  a  state  of  high  excitement, 
Julius  hurried  from  this  scene  of  wretchedness.  In- 
stead of  going  to  his  own  room,  he  went  into  Meister 
Grone,  who  staggered  towards  him  with  a  countenance 
as  death-like  as  that  of  the  corpse  he  had  just  seen. 
Sarah,  more  like  a  statue  than  a  living  woman,  sat  by 
the  stove,  comforting  the  crying  Christina.  *'  Herr 
Student,  for  God's  sake,  is  he  still  alive  ?"  asked  Grone 
with  quivering  lips  and  faltering  voice. 

^*No,"  was  the  reply  ;  to  which  both  uncle  and 
aunt  returned  a  deep-drawn  and  involuntary  "  God  be 
praised !" 

"  God  be  praised!"  repeated  the  shuddering  and  in- 
dignant Julius.  **  Gray-headed  man  of  sin.  Thankest 
thou  God  for  the  death  of  a  fellow-sinner  ?  and  he  thy 
own  nephew,  taken  away  in  the  midst  of  his  crimes  ? 
God  forgive  thee  this,  as  well  as  thy  past  offences!" 

He  turned  away  in  disgust  and  horror,  and  went  to 
his  apartment. 

"  This  shall  be  the  last  night  I  spend  in  this  horrible 
den,"  he  exclaimed  aloud,  as  he  closed  the  door,  and 
threw  himself  down  upon  the  sofa.     Then  starting  up 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  113 

again,  he  struck  a  light,  and  set  about  packing  up  his 
things.  The  wardrobe  and  the  drawers  were  soon 
emptied,  and  his  books  taken  down  and  thrown  upon 
the  table.  He  then  pulled  his  trunk  from  under  the 
bed  in  the  alcove,  where  it  had  been  pushed  out  of  the 
way.  In  effecting  this,  agitation  of  mind  caused  him 
to  employ  some  violence,  as  well  as  noise,  and  the  cor- 
ner of  the  heavy  trunk,  being  forced  against  the  wall, 
loosened  a  piece  of  the  skirting-board,  which  fell  flat. 
He  brought  a  light  in  order  to  repair  the  damage,  and 
discovered  a  dark  bundle,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
stufiTed  purposely  behind  it.  On  examination,  it  proved 
to  be  the  clothes  of  a  man,  discoloured  and  hardened 
by  what  looked  like  dried  blood.  One  flap  of  the 
waistcoat  still  showed  that  it  was  of  embroidered  satin, 
such  as  would  have  been  worn  only  by  a  gentleman. 
In  spite  of  the  horror  which  the  sight  of  this  bloody 
spoil  inspired,  curiosity  urged  him  to  the  minutest  in- 
vestigation, and  he  further  discovered,  on  the  left  side, 
two  holes,  to  all  appearance  made  by  the  passage  of 
some  murderous  weapon. 

The  piece  of  skirting-board  had  evidently  been  re- 
placed, after  the  deposit  of  the  clothes,  in  a  hurried  or 
careless  manner,  with  two  slight  nails  imperfectly  driv- 
en in. 

Julius  was  still  engaged  in  contemplating  these  bloody 
witnesses  of  a  dreadful  deed,  when  Susan  opened  the 
door  of  his  room.  She  was  alarmed  at  the  fierceness 
with  which  he  darted  from  the  alcove  to  demand  the 
reason  of  the  intrusion. 

*^  Cousin  Grone  and  Sarah  are  both  in  distraction, 
trembling  and  weeping  so,  that  my  heart  aches  to  see 
them.  They  are  frightened  at  the  noise  you  are  ma- 
king, and  anxious  to  know  what  you  are  about.  Meis- 
ter  Grone  told  me  to  say  that  he  would  be  eternally 
obliged  by  your  allowing  him  five  minutes'  conversa- 
tion in  the  morning.     He  says  you  may  be  his  ruin.'' 

**  Shameless  hypocrite!"  cried  Julius,  holding  up  the 
waistcoat.  "See  here  ;  a  witness  of  his  long  concealed 
crime.  How  true  the  saying,  that  murder  will  out! — 
From  this,  Susan,  you  may  guess  the  fate  of  Wittenhoff'." 

VOL.    IL — K  2 


114  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

**  Ah!  Lord  of  life  and  mercy!"  shrieked  the  terri- 
fied girl,  and  ran  down  stairs  without  knowing  what 
she  did.  Her  scream  brought  up  Meister  Grone  and 
his  wife. 

'^  Not  a  step  further!''  cried  the  student,  grasping 
a  pistol  as  they  appeared  at  the  door  ;  the  candles  in 
their  hand  gleaming  on  their  haggard,  death-pale  coun- 
tenances. '<  Would  you  add  mine  to  the  bones  alrea- 
dy mouldering  in  the  vaults  of  this  slaughter-house  ? 
Back,  wretches!  What  have  you  done  with  Witten- 
hoff? — Do  you  not  know  this  garment? — What  lie  can 
help  you  now  ?'' 

At  this  vehement,  rapid,  and  unexpected  address,  and 
at  the  unsightly  object  in  the  student's  hand,  Grone, 
feeble  with  age  and  infirmity,  fell  almost  senseless 
into  Sarah's  arms.  "My  God!  the  chevalier's  waist- 
coat!" whimpered  the  old  woman. 

<' Away  with  you!"  cried  Julius.     '^  The  police — " 

"Mercy!  mercy!  mercy!"  cried  the  old  man,  as  if 
recalled  to  life  and  agony  by  the  word  ;  and  throwing 
himself  on  his  knees  before  the  student:  "Can  you, 
whose  calling  is  to  preach  mercy,  deny  it  to  us  ?" 

"  I,  at  least,  am  innocent,"  said  Sarah,  sobbing,  '^  I 
knew  nothing  of  the  business,  till  long  after." 

*^ Begone!  I  tell  you. — Utter  another  lying  word, 
and  I  summon  the  watch  this  very  moment." 

This  threat  drove  the  supplicant  to  despair.  He 
arose  wildly  from  his  knees,  and  addressed  his  wife. 
*'  Oh!  that  I  had  but  heeded  your  advice,  Sarah,  not  to 
take  this  madman  into  m}-  house.  He  will  destroy  our 
good  fame — perhaps  our  lives!" 

He  was  interrupted  by  loud  knocking  at  the  house- 
door.  "  What's  that  ?  Who  can  come  after  ten  o'clock ! 
It  must  be  the  policemen  !" 

The  knocking  became  louder,  and  the  bell  rang  fu- 
riously. The  old  people  at  last,  becoming  more  col- 
lected, tottered  down  stairs  together. 

Grone's  last  words  had  made  an  impression  on  the 
student,  and  he  almost  reproached  himself  for  being  so 
hard  towards  his  hosts,  however  guilty  they  might  be. 
'^  It  is  not  for  a  minister  of  Christ  to  wield  the  sword 
of  Justice!"  said  he  to  himself,  after  some  reflection. 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  115 

He  wished  to  spare  himself  any  further  proceedings 
against  them  by  giving  them  time  to  abscond.  But 
then — the  danger  of  remaining  a  whole  night  under 
their  roof!  Might  not  they  have  accomplices  at  hand, 
who  would  insure  their  safety  at  the  expense  of  his  life  ? 

Suddenly  perceiving  that  his  hand  still  grasped  the 
bloody  waistcoat,  he  flung  it  from  him  with  horror. 
He  was  about  to  lock  himself  in,  but  he  had  mislaid  the 
key  of  the  door,  and  it  was  no  where  to  be  found. 
There  was  no  bolt,  except  on  the  outside.  Doubtful 
and  anxious  what  to  do  for  his  defence,  he  stood  listen- 
ing at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  heard  several  voices 
speaking  together  below.  Yet  the  sounds  were  unlike 
those  of  ruffian  greetings.  Julius  fancied  that  he  heard 
expressions  of  joy,  followed  by  a  woman's  cry  :  a  door 
clapped,  and  then  all  sank  into  a  low  murmur  within 
Meister  Grone's  room.  He  continued  listening  a  long 
time,  but  without  arriving  at  any  conclusion  as  to  what 
he  heard.  Meanwhile  the  lamp  in  his  room  had  gone 
out,  and  he  had  to  grope  his  way  back  in  the  dark. 
He  sat  down  on  the  first  chair  that  he  stumbled  against, 
in  hopes  of  some  one  coming  up  stairs  with  a  light. 
Here  weariness  and  sleep  overpowered  his  fears,  and 
every  phantom  of  danger  gradually  faded  away.  The 
design  of  piling  chairs  and  tables  against  the  door  sug- 
gested itself  faintly  to  his  mind,  but  instead  of  execu- 
ting it  he  found  his  way  to  the  alcove,  threw  himself, 
dressed  as  he  was,  upon  the  bed,  and  was  fast  asleep  in 
a  moment.  He  would  have  slumbered  on,  undisturbed 
by  terrific  dreams,  had  he  not  been  waked  by  a  loud 
noise,  and  a  sudden  heavy  pressure  on  his  breast.  He 
opened  his  eyes,  beheld  a  tall  figure  bending  over  the 
bed,  and  holding  him  down  with  one  hand.  Perfect 
recollection  of  the  circumstances  under  which  he  went 
to  sleep  returned,  and  he  cried  out  :  **  Hollo!  Murder! 
Help!"  struggling  all  the  while  to  free  himself  from 
the  hands  of  the  assassin. 

<*  Julius,  my  dear  fellow,  don't  you  know  me  ?'' 
said  the  supposed  ruffian. 

'<  In  God's  name!"  exclaimed  the  student,  looking 
wildly  about  him,  "what  are  you  ?  Is  it  possible  that 
you  should  be  Philip  Wittenhoff  ?" 


116  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

"Yes,  truly,  "  replied  the  stranger,  laughing  at  his 
friend's  scared  look:  ''That  very  worthy  gentleman, 
and  your  old  schoolfellow,  in  a  proper  garment  of  flesh 
and  blood,  and  no  '  horrible  shadow,'  such  as  you  seem 
to  take  me  for." 

The  student,  still  amazed  and  incredulous,  said  no- 
thing. Wittenhoff  seated  himself  familiarly  on  the  bed, 
and  heartily  shook  the  passive  hand  of  his  friend. 
*'Tliough  I  am  tired  with  my  long  day's  journey,  I  must 
still  spend  a  little  time  in  extricating  you  from  the  laby- 
rinth of  error  into  which  appearances  have  led  you." 

"  How  strange!"  said  Julius,  "  I  can't  believe  my 
senses — but  go  on." 

<*You  know  Susan," — continued  WittenhofT,  "I 
love  her  as  my  life.  My  step-father's  ruin  and  death 
reduced  me  to  poverty,  and  old  Grone  would  not  hear 
of  her  marrying  a  beggarly  student,  for  fear  he  should 
have  to  maintain  two  instead  of  one.  Finding  that  he 
would  not  hear  reason,  I  resolved  to  carry  her  off  to 
America.  I  had  agreed  with  the  maste*  of  a  ship — 
bound  to  New  York,  but  an  old  Dutch  caj^tn,  a  friend 
of  Grone's,  found  it  out,  and  betrayed  me  to  him.  Grone 
reproached  me  in  the  captain's  presence,  for  my  clan- 
destine proceedings.  I  had  nothing  to  plead  in  return 
but  my  love  for  Susan,  and  her  relation's  obduracy.  I 
suppose  that  the  warmth  of  my  feelings  made  me  elo- 
quent, for  the  Dutchman  was  moved  to  pity,  and  inter- 
ceded for  me.  But  Grone  was  inexorable — all  that 
could  be  extorted  from  him,  and  that  much  against  the 
will  of  his  wife,  was  a  conditional  promise — that  if  in 
three  years  I  continued  in  the  same  mind,  and  had  earn- 
ed such  an  independence  as  would  preclude  all  chance  of 
my  becoming  a  burthen  to  him,  he  would  no  longer  ob- 
ject to  our  marriage.     But  that  in  the  mean  time  I  must 

quit  L ,  and   seek  my  fortune  elsewhere.     The 

Dutch  captain  then  told  me  that  a  friend  of  his,  who  was 
to  sail  that  evening  for  Batavia,  was  in  great  distress 
for  a  clerk,  his  own  having  suddenly  refused  to  accom- 
pany him. 

"You  are  a  good  accountant,"  said  the  old  kind- 
hearted  sailor;  "and  upon  my  recommendation  he  will 
take  you.     Lay  out  what  cash  you  may  have  in  such 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  117 

European  gew-gaws  as  fetch  a  high  price  beyond  seas, 
and  trust  to  luck  for  the  rest.  In  those  parts  industry  and 
a  sharp  wit  turn  every  thing  to  gold.  But  there  is  not 
a  moment  to  lose." 

After  a  little  hesitation  I  accepted  the  offer.  By  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening  all  was  ready  for  my  departure. 
I  sought  Susan,  to  break  to  her  my  change  of  plan,  and 
by  my  assurances  of  constancy,  to  reconcile  her,  if  pos- 
sible, to  my  absence.  But  she  was  no  where  to  be  found. 
At  last,  Frau  Sarah  confessed  that  she  had  purposely 
sent  her  out  of  the  way,  that  there  might  be  no  parting 
sentimentalities,  to  render  the  foolish  girl  more  unfit 
than  she  was  already  for  the  discharge  of  her  household 
duties.  I  cursed  the  old  woman  in  my  heart,  and,  I 
fear,  remonstrated  in  no  very  gentle  terms,  for  she 
flounced  out  of  the  room,  muttering  something  about 
never  letting  a  student  into  her  house  again,  instead  of 
wishing  me  good-bye.  I  wrote  a  hasty  farewell  to  my 
poor  Susan,  and  left  it  in  my  table-drawer,  where  I  had 
no -doubt  she  would  find  it  in  arranging  various  effects 
which  I  had  left  to  the  care  of  Grone.  But  from  my 
never  hearing  from  her,  and  from  what  I  have  learned 
to-night,  I  suspect  the  old  cat  of  having  discovered  and 
suppressed  it." 

<'  I  believe  her  capable  of  any  villainy  as  well  as  her 
husband,"  said  Julius,  «^I  can  produce  the  strongest 
circumstantial  evidence  of  their  having  been  accompli- 
ces, if  not  perpetrators,  of  a  murder." 

*'I  guess  to  what  you  allude,"  interrupted  Witten- 
hoff,  '•  but  appearances  have  deceived  you — or  perhaps 
malicious  or  inaccurate  reports.  The  Grones  are  greedy, 
selfish  people,  but  incapable  of  such  atrocities  as  you 
have  attributed  to  them." 

<'Well — you  shall  see!"  said  Julius,  springing  off  the 
bed,  and  opening  the  curtain  which  divided  the  alcove 
from  the  rest  of  the  room.  He  started  back  at  seeing 
Meister  Grone  ushering  in  a  young  man  of  gentlemanly 
appearance,  and  an  old  one  in  the  dress  of  an  ecclesias- 
tic of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  Wittenhoff  hastily 
closed  the  curtain  again,  and  whispered  to  his  friend  to 
be  silent. 

Grone  advanced  with  a  candle  in  his  hand,  which  he 


118  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

held  to  the  blood-stained  boards,  and  taking  up  the  em- 
broidered waistcoat  which  Julius  had  flung  down  on  the 
floor,  presented  it  to  the  young  man  without  speaking. 
Thelatterexamined  it  attentively,  and  gave  itto  the  Abbe- 
They  then  spoke  together  in  such  low  tones,  that  no- 
thing was  distinguishable,  except  that  what  they  said 
was  in  French.  The  Abbe  proceeded  to  take  a  breviary 
from  his  pocket,  and  placing  himself  beside  the  spot, 
which  Grone  had  pointed  out,  murmured  some  Latin 
prayers  in  which  the  young  man  joined.  Then  closing 
the  book,  the  priest  pronounced  the  benediction  aloud, 
and  all  three  retired. 

"  That  is  the  Marquis  de  Neuville  and  his  tutor," 
said  Wittenhoff"  as  jVIeister  Grone  closed  the  door, 
"my  friends  and  travelling  companions.  My  destiny 
having  removed  me,  at  the  end  of  six  months,  from 
Batavia  to  the  Isle  of  Bourbon,  I  was  there  taken  into 
the  employ  of  a  Madame  Dubois,  a  rich  planter's  widow, 
whose  son  this  you  tig  man  is  by  a  first  marriage.  1 
shortly  became  superintendent  of  her  extensive  planta- 
tions, with  a  liberal  salary,  and  so  far  gained  her  esteem 
and  friendship,  that  she  proposed  to  me  to  accompany 
the  young  marquis  to  Europe,  on  account  of  the  Abb6's 
age  and  infirmities.  My  circumstances  being  known  to 
Madame  Dubois,  she  engaged,  with  the  concurrence  of 
her  son,  that  if  I  would  marry  Susan  and  determine  to 
settle  in  their  colony,  they  would  appoint  me  permanent 
agent,  with  such  advantages  as  I  could  not  refuse.  She 
made  it  a  point  that  her  son  and  the  Abbe  should  also 
visit  this  city,  and  offer  up  prayers  for  the  soul  of  the 
late  Marquis  on  the  spot  where  he  fell.  And  now,  Ju- 
lius, comes  the  solution  of  the  second  mystery  attached 
to  this  house. 

"  This  young  man's  father  emigrated  to  Germany  dur- 
ing the  French  revolution,  with  his  wife  and  child. 
Their  poverty  obliging  them  to  live  in  the  strictest  se- 
clusion, they  lodged  in  this  house.  Accident  made  their 
retreat  known  to  a  countryman  and  former  acquaintance 
of  theirs,  the  Chevalier  de  Mercceur,  who  was  living 
here  in  affluent  circumstances.  By  repeated  acts  of  ap- 
parently delicate  and  disinterested  kindness  they  were, 
at  length,  induced  to  admit  him  to  their  intimacy,  and 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  119 

even  to  accept  pecuniary  assistance  from  him.  In  the 
course  of  time,  however,  the  Marquis  discovered  that 
the  object  of  this  perfidious  fViend  was  to  seduce  the 
affections  of  his  wife.  His  temper  was  jealous  and  fiery. 
He  upbraided  the  Chevalier  with  his  dishonourable  con- 
duct, in  the  marchioness's  presence.  They  fought,  and 
Monsieur  de  Neuville  was  run  through  the  body  in  this 
very  room.  It  was  a  dark  foggy  niglit  in  November. 
Excepting  the  people  of  the  house,  there  was  nobody 
below  butGrone's  nephew,  Frank,  drinking  with  a  car- 
penter of  the  neighbourhood.  The  clashing  of  swords 
brought  the  men  up  stairs,  where  they  met  the  Cheva- 
lier, rushing  out  of  the  Marquis's  apartment.  He  es- 
caped before  the  cause  of  the  alarm  was  well  known. 
The  Marchioness  was  lying  in  a  swoon  upon  the  corpse 
of  her  husband.  The  carpenter  proposed  giving  the 
alarm,  but  Grone  objected.  The  suspicious  character 
of  the  neighbourhood,  and  his  own  smuggling  concerns, 
(the  house  being  at  the  time  full  of  contraband  goods) 
made  him  fearful  of  attracting  the  notice  of  the  police. 
The  Marchioness  lay  so  long  insensible,  that  they  began 
to  think  her  dead  also.  Apprehension  of  discovery 
urged  them  to  use  despatch,  and  before  the  lady  came 
to  herself,  the  body  had  been  safely  deposited  in  the 
canal,  behind  the  house. 

<'The  disappearance  of  the  Marquis  was  not  observed, 
both  on  account  of  the  deep  retirement  in  which  he 
lived,  and  because  he  was  often  in  the  habit  of  absenting 
himself  for  days  together.  The  circumstances  of  his 
death  being  of  a  nature  to  reflect  upon  the  widow's  re- 
putation, however  innocent  she  might  really  be,  her 
consent  to  its  concealment  was  easily  obtained;  and,  as 
soon  as  she  was  able  to  move,  she  departed  with  her  son 
under  pretence  of  joining  her  husband  at  the  Prince  of 
Conde's  head  quarters.  The  chevalier  was  never  seen 
here  again.  Grone  and  his  coadjutors  removed  all  traces 
of  the  transaction  as  well  as  they  could,  and  bound  them- 
selves by  an  oath  never  to  reveal  it.  The  carpenter, 
soon  after,  fell  from  a  scaflblding  and  was  killed.  Frank 
has  constantly  taken  advantage  of  his  uncle's  fears  to 
extort  money,  for  the  indulgence  of  his  drunken  and 
dissolute  habits. 


120  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

^^Now,  then,  I  have  told  you  enough  to  clear  up  all 
the  mysteries  which  have  disturbed  your  peace,  friend 
Julius.  The  events  by  which  the  Marchioness  became 
Madame  Dubois  would  take  long  to  relate,  and  are  no- 
thing to  the  purpose.  All  I  shall  say  is,  that  on  our  arri- 
val to-night  we  alighted  at  an  hotel,  and  walked  here 
immediately  to  fulfil  the  widow's  injunctions.  The 
Marquis  and  his  tutor  set  out  early  in  the  morning  for 
Paris,  where  I  am  to  join  them  as  soon  as  my  own  affairs 
are  settled." 

'^How  easily  may  we  be  deceived  by  appearances," 
said  the  Student,  after  some  moments'  musing  ;  "  I  am 
now  amazed  at  the  facility  with  which  my  imagination 
supplied  every  little  link  wanting  to  make  the  chain  of 
evidence  complete." 

'*  Herr  Wittenhoff!"  whispered  the  soft  voice  of  Su- 
san, whose  head  was  seen  peeping  in  at  the  door;  "Herr 
Wittenhoff!  the  old  French  gentleman  has  sent  me  to 
say,  that  it  is  time  to  go." 

Wittenhoff  started  up  to  obey  the  summons,  but  went 
not  until  he  had  heartily  embraced  the  fair  and  blushing 
messenger.  This  scene  might  have  inflicted  a  pang 
upon  our  Student,  had  he  not  been  saved  from  the  effects 
of  Susan's  attractions  by  the  images  of  mystery  and  hor- 
ror which,  during  the  few  days  of  his  residence  at  Meis- 
ter  Grone's,  preoccupied  a  mind  naturally  addicted  to 
the  marvellous. 

The  friends  descended  together;  and  when  Witten- 
hoff and  the  strangers  had  retired,  Julius  entreated  the 
old  people  to  shake  hands  with  him,  and  to  forgive  the 
suspicions  he  had  so  roughly  manifested.  His  associa- 
tions, however,  with  their  abode,  were  of  too  unpleasant 
a  nature  to  dispose  him  to  remain  there;  and,  the  next 
day,  he  removed  into  another  lodging.  Here  he  v/as 
joined  by  Wittenhoff,  and  they  passed  together  the  time 
which  the  latter  required  to  conclude  the  necessary  ar- 
rangements for  his  marriage  with  Susan.  As  soon  as  it 
had  taken  place,  the  <*  happy  pair"  set  out  for  Paris, 
and  not  long  after  for  the  Isle  of  Bourbon;  where,  for 
ought  I  know  to  the  contrary,  they  are  flourishing  ^*at 
this  present  writing." 


THE 


WHITE     GREYHOUND: 

AN    ANECDOTE,    FROM    THE    LIFE    OF   JOHANNES 
STAHL. 


Vol.  II.— L 


THE 


WHITE    GREYHOUND 


At  the  age  of  eighteen,  having  finished  my  school  edu- 
cation at  the  Lyceum  of  the  town  where  my  mother 
lived,  I  was,  after  the  midsummer  holidays,  to  go  to  the 
University  ;  in  compliance  with  my  father's  last  v/ish, 
that  I  should  be  brought  up  to  the  law,  of  which  pro- 
fession he  himself  was  a  distinguished  member. 

It  was  already  the  middle  of  xlugust,  and  it  want- 
ed but  a  few  weeks  to  the  time  when  I  was  to  com- 
mence the  jovial  career  of  a  student.  1  had  heard  some 
former  schoolfellows,  older  than  myself,  and  already 
domesticated  with  the  Muses  at  Heidelberg,  declaim  so 
rapturously  in  favour  of  a  college  life,  that  I  now  thought 
of  little  else. 

There  were  two  young  men  of  my  own  a2;e  who  were 
to  go  to  Heidelberg  at  the  same  time.  With  these  I 
spentall  my  day,  lounging  in  coffee-houses, and  practising 
billiards,  fencing,  drinking,  and  all  the  other  liberal 
arts  by  which  college  notoriety  is  to  be  acquired  in  Ger- 
many. Yet  I  did  not  find  this  road  to  distinction  either 
as  easy,  or  as  pleasant,  as  1  had  been  led  to  expect. 
My  companions,  therefore,  left  me  far  behind  them  in 
all  the  abovementioned  accomplishments  ;  and  I  could 
not  disguise  from  myself,  (unwilling  as  I  was  to  admit 
the  fact)  that  I  was  spiritless  enough,  never  to  feel  so 
really  happy  as  when  ranging  the  fields,  sitting  under  a 


124  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

tree,  or  dreaming  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  without  any 
other  company  than  my  dog  Fidelio, — a  glossy  snow- 
white  greyhound,  with  a  pair  of  soft,  intelligent  brown 
eyes,  that  would  not  have  disgraced  the  visage  of  the 
most  admired  of  our  town  beauties. 

My  mother  was  unwearied  in  her  labours  to  fit  me 
out  as  became  a  new-born  son  of  the  Muses.  She  knit 
stockings,  sewed  shirts,  and  hemmed  handkerchiefs, 
from  morning  till  night,  and,  as  I  suspected,  often  from 
night  till  morning.  In  vain  I  begged  her  not  to  work 
so  hard  for  me  ;  and  repeated  what  I  had  heard  from  my 
companions,  that  a  genuine,  thorough-going  German  stu- 
dent was  too  far  elevated  above  the  prejudices  of  society, 
to  have  more  garments  in  his  possession  than  those  on 
his  back. 

On  a  sudden  I  remarked  that  her  usual  quiet  cheer- 
fulness had  given  place  to  restless  anxiety,  and  I  often 
discovered  the  traces  of  tears  on  her  cheeks  ;  but  she 
never  returned  any  satisfactory  answers  to  my  inquir- 
ies. Sometimes  she  would  say  it  was  all  fancy  on  my 
part,  and  sometimes  that  she  was  depressed  by  the 
thoughts  of  parting  from  me  so  soon,  and  for  so  long  a 
time.  This  appeared  to  me  natural  enough  in  a  poor 
widow,  whose  narrow  circumstances  had  obliged  her  to 
live  in  almost  total  seclusion  ever  since  her  husband's 
death.  Moved  by  her  affliction,  I  staid  more  at  home, 
kept  regular  hours,  and  applied  myself  diligently  to 
study,  endeavouring  on  every  possible  occasion  to  man- 
ifest my  filial  love  and  duty.  All  I  could  obtain  in 
return  was  a  sickly,  tearful  smile,  which  it  broke  my 
heart  to  see. 

One  evening,  in  a  long  ramble  with  my  dog  Fidelio, 
I  had  indulged  in  my  favourite  pastime  of  castle-build- 
ing, anticipating  the  time  when,  loaded  with  academical 
honours,  I  should  obtain  a  situation  similar  to  that 
which  my  father  had  held  in  my  native  town  ;  and  not 
only  be  enabled  to  give  my  dear  mother  a  comfortable 
home,  but  also  to  maintain  a  wife,  who  should  share 
with  me  the  pleasing  task  of  repaying,  in  some  part  at 
least,  her  afiectionate  care.  These  visions  had  exhilar- 
ated my  spirits,  and  I  returned  home  whistling  and  sing- 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  125 

ing — Fidelio  friskino;  and  bounding  before  me.  I  open- 
ed tbe  door  of  our  little  sitting-room,  and  every  stone 
of  my  castle  was  demolished  by  seeing  my  mother  with 
her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  in  an  attitude  of  the  deep- 
est dejection,  which  my  entrance  did  not  seem  to  dis- 
turb. I  flew  to  her  side,  embraced,  and  conjured  lierto 
tell  me  what  had  happened.  She  was  at  first  too  much 
agitated  to  speak  ;  but  at  length  I  gathered  from  her  the 
fcPswing  particulars. — 

By  great  economy  my  father  had  been  able  to  lay  by 
twenty  thousand  thalers  for  the  object  of  securing  a  com- 
fortable existence  to  my  mother,  should  she  survive  him, 
and  of  giving  me  a  college  education.  About  three  years 
before  this  time,  and  one  before  his  death,  my  father's 
health  had  declined  so  rapidly  that  he  deemed  it  advisable 
to  make  some  pecuniary  arrangements  for  our  benefit.  In 
this  view  he  called  in  his  little  capital,  which  was  dis- 
persed in  loans,  mostly  without  security.  It  occurred 
to  him  that  the  money  might  be  placed  securely  as  well 
as  advantageously  with  an  old  friend  of  his,  who  was 
one  of  the  first  bankers  in  Dresden.  My  father's  request 
was  acceded  to,  and  his  mind  relieved  from  all  anxiety 
on  our  account  ;  for,  confiding  in  the  honesty  and  credit 
of  his  friend  Damberg,  he  believed  our  independence 
insured.  The  four  first  quarterly  pa5^ments  of  interest 
had  been  regularly  made,  when  my  father  died.  Short- 
ly after  this  event  my  mother  heard  of  Dam  berg's  fail- 
ure. He  wrote  to  her  himself,  and  described  his  own 
situation  in  the  most  moving  terms,  lamenting  the  loss 
that  his  friend's  family  must  incur  through  his  mis- 
fortunes, but  promising  to  make  it  good  if  ever  his  af- 
fairs should  take  a  more  prosperous  turn. 

My  mother  now  found  herself  in  a  deplorable  situa- 
tion. All  she  had  to  depend  upon  was  gone,  except  the 
house  we  lived  in, and  a  little  bit  of  land,  the  income  aris- 
ing from  which  scarcely  sufficed  for  our  subsistence.  Yet 
she  would  not  relinquish  the  hope  of  being  able  to  ful- 
fil my  father's  dying  wish,  that  I  should  go  to  the  Uni- 
versity. She  applied  to  the  minister.  Count  Von  A — , 
to  whom  my  father  was  indebted  for  the  situation  he 
had  held,  and    who  had  always  expressed   a  friendly 

VOL.   II. L  2 


126  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

interest  for  him.  He  now  promised  his  assistance,  and 
gave  my  molher  hopes  that  something  might  be  recov- 
ered out  of  the  wreck  of  Dam  berg's  propert3\  She 
clung  the  more  lenaciously  to  this  ho]>e,  as  she  heard 
from  various  quarters  that  Damberg's  affairs  were  set- 
tled, and  that  he  had  recommenced  business  on  a  more 
extensive  scale  than  before  the  crash. 

After  waiting  anxiously  for  several  months,  and  hear- 
ing nothing  more,  she  again  wrote  both  to  Damber^ix)id 
the  minister. 

**I  have  received  answers  to  both  my  applications 
this  afternoon,"  said  my  mother.  "  Damberg  repeats 
his  former  professions  of  sorrow  for  the  situation  into 
which  his  unfortunate  bankruptcy  has  plunged  me,  but 
denies  that  he  lias  saved  any  part  of  his  property,  and 
laments  Ins  utter  inability  to  assist  his  old  friend's  fam- 
ily, being  himself  entirely  dependent  on  his  children,  on 
whom  tlieir  mother's  estates  had  devolved.  The  min- 
ister's letter  is  not  more  consolatory.  He  has  caused 
our  claims  to  be  registered,  but  Damberg's  debts  so  far 
exceed  the  funds  ^iven  up  to  the  creditors,  that  after 
the  mortgages  which  his  children  had  on  the  estate  were 
paid,  there  was  nothing  left  l^or  the  other  claimants." 

My  mother  ceased,  and  her  tears  flowed  afresh,  and 
so  deej)  was  my  first  feeling  of  disappointment,  that  I 
wept  with  her.  She,  however,  no  sooner  saw  my 
tears,  than  she  stove  to  suppress  her  own,  and  to  comfort 
me. 

*«  Don't  despair,  my  dear  child,"  said  she,  ^^your 
father's  wish  and  yours  shall  still  be  fulfilled.  I  have 
been  used  to  constant  occupation,  and  know  many  in- 
genious works,  by  which  1  may  add  to  our  income. 
You  don't  know  how  much  an  industrious  woman  may 
earn,  when  so  strong  a  motive  as  her  child's  welfare 
urges  her  to  evertion.  1  have  already  realized  enough 
to  set  you  off  the  first  year." 

Those  words  redoubled  my  emotion.  1  threw  my 
arms  round  my  mother's  neck.  ^'  Oh,  my  dearest  mo- 
ther!" I  exclaimed.  <'How  have  you  slaved  and  suf- 
fered for  my  sake!  how  shall  I  ever  repay  your  love  ?" 

She  dried  her   tears,  and    took    my   hand  in  hers. 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  127 

<^  What  I  have  done,  Johannes,  I  have  done  cheerfully 
and  willingly.  Your  dutiful  love,  my  son,  will  reward 
me  tenfold. '^ 

A  sudden  resolution  started  up  in  my  mind.  ^<  No, 
mother,"  I  replied.  *'  God  forbid  that  at  eighteen  I 
should  continue  to  live  by  the  sweat  of  your  brow — I'll 
abandon  learning,  and  from  henceforward  the  labour  of 
my  hands  shall  maintain  us  both.  I  know  the  bailiflf 
has  been  obliged  to  dismiss  his  clerk;  he  will,  I  am  sure, 
take  me  into  the  office.  This  very  evening  I'll  go  and 
ask  him." 

Of  course  my  mother  resisted,  and  a  contest  ensued, 
in  which  neither  of  us  would  yield  to  the  other.  It 
ended,  however,  in  her  consenting  to  my  going  to  Dres- 
den, and  trying  what  could  be  obtained  by  personal  ap- 
plication. I  was  too  ignorant  of  the  world  to  suppose 
it  possible  that  truth  could  fail  of  obtaining  justice.  I 
proposed  to  exert  all  my  powers  of  eloquence  to  arouse 
the  conscience  of  the  banker  ;  by  reminding  him  of  the 
friendship  which  had  subsisted,  for  so  many  years,  be- 
tween him  and  my  father,  recalling  the  promises  he  had 
made  to  my  mother,  and  representing  the  disgrace  he 
must  incur  by  disregarding  them.  Should  these  re- 
monstrances prove  unavailing,  I  resolved  to  apply  to  the 
minister,  Count  Von  A — ,  whose  character  stood  high 
for  integrity  ;  and  who,  I  made  no  doubt,  would  conduct 
me  himself,  if  needful,  to  the  foot  of  the  throne. 

Buoyed  by  these  expectations,  I  proposed  to  set  out 
the  next  day  on  my  pilgrimage.  The  separation  from 
my  mother,  the  first  time  in  my  life,  occasioned  me 
great  pain  ;  but  the  vivid  colours  in  which  my  imagin- 
ation depicted  the  object  and  result  of  my  journey,  al- 
most overpowered  it.  The  idea  of  unmasking  a  villain, 
and  of  compelling  ministers  and  monarchs  to  listen  to 
my  mother's  wrongs  and  to  redress  them,  drew  forth 
all  the  latent  vanity,  and  self-importance  of  an  only  son. 

I  travelled  on  foot,  my  student's  havresac  of  green 
on  my  shoulders,  and  a  stout  hazel  stick  in  my  hand. 
Fidelio,  my  faithful  companion,  frisked  and  frolicked 
by  my  side;  and  testified  his  joy  by  a  thousand  wild 
freaks.     My  mother  had  wished  me  to  leave  him  at 


128  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

home,  fearing  he  might  prove  troublesome  on  the 
journey,  and  perhaps  be  lost.  But  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  ])art  from  my  faithful  gi'eyhound,  who  had 
been  constantly  my  companion  from  his  puppyhood, 
and  so  distinguished  for  his  amiable  qualities,  that  by 
an  exception  made  in  his  favour,  I  was  permitted  to 
take  him  into  the  school-room,  where  his  decorous  be- 
haviour might  have  been  imitated  with  advantage  by 
most  of  the  scholars. 

It  was  on  a  lovely  morning  in  August,  that  1  left  my 
home.  The  first  day  passed  without  my  meeting  with 
any  adventure,  and  so  did  the  second,  except  that  Fi- 
delio  sufiered  himself  to  be  betrayed  into  a  momentary 
indulgence  of  the  only  vicious  propensity  he  had  ever 
manifested:  he  chased  a  hen,  and  killed  her.  Some 
men  working  in  the  farm-yard  attacked  us  both  with 
their  pitchforks,  and  would  have  taken  "blood  for 
blood, '^  if  my  pocket  had  not  supplied  the  means  of 
paying  much  more  than  the  damage.  Little  thinking 
what  greater  dangers  and  vexations  poor  Fidelio  was 
destined  to  bring  upon  me,  I  pursued  my  way,  rehears- 
ing the  different  harangues  with  which  I  proposed 
first, — to  confound  the  banker — then,  to  astonish  the 
minister — and  perhaps  even  the  king  himself:  my  sense 
of  importance  augmenting  with  each  repetition.  The 
third  day,  towards  evening,  1  passed  through  a  village, 
whose  cheerful  friendly  aspect  attracted  my  attention. 
The  setting  sun  gilded  the  church  spire,  and  the  vine- 
covered  dwelling  of  the  pastor.  I  had  studied  La  Fon- 
taine's novels  too  diligently  to  contemplate  such  a  scene 
with  indifference.  Resting  on  my  staff,  I  fell  into  one 
of  those  day-dreams  to  which  I  am  still  prone.  The 
prominent  figures  in  this  imaginary  scene  were  pastors' 
daughters,  simple,  pious,  and  beautiful.  I  was  dis- 
turbed by  the  voices  and  merriment  of  children  ;  and  I 
could  not  resist  peeping  through  a  gap  in  the  hedge 
which  enclosed  this  paradise  of  love  and  charity. 

Truly,  my  imagination  had  never  created  a  vision 
lovelier  than  the  reality  which  offered  itself  to  my  eyes. 
A  group  of  little  children  were  gathered  round  a  table 
in  an  arbour,  and  a  girl  of  fourteen,  or  at  most  fifteen, 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  129 

was  busily  employed  in  distributing  slices  of  bread  and 
butter,  witb  a  glass  of  milk,  to  each  of  them.  Such 
was  the  playful  grace  of  her  manner  and  the  symmetry 
of  her  form,  that  in  comparison  with  her,  Werter's 
Charlotte  must  have  been  an  Esquimaux.  I  stood  rapt 
in  admiration  and  delight.  Bankers,  ministers,  and 
kings — even  the  sorrows  of  my  mother  were  forgotten  ; 
and  the  world  seemed  to  contain  nothing  worth  living 
for,  but  the  fascinating  object  before  me.  She  looked 
up.  I  perceived  that  she  s?\v  me  ;  and  fearing  that  she 
might  be  alarmed  or  annoyed  by  the  observation  of  a 
stranger,  I  wished  myself  away,  but  found  I  was  inca- 
pable of  moving. 

My  fears,  however,  proved  groundless,  for  looking 
at  me  tranquilly,  as  if  to  discover  what  might  be  my 
motive  for  standing  there,  she  came  towards  me  with  a 
firm  step. 

<*  We  are  at  our  evening  repast,"  said  she,  in  accents 
so  sweet  that  I  can  never  forget  them.  *'  May  I  offer 
you  any  refreshment?'^ 

I  felt  myself  humiliated  by  her  words,  in  spite  of  the 
melodious  tone  in  which  they  were  uttered,  and  coloured 
deeply.  1  believed  that  if  my  looks  had  expressed  any 
thing,  it  must  have  been  the  tenderness  and  admiration 
with  which  my  heart  was  overflowing  ;  whereas  sh-e 
read  nothing  in  them  but  a  base  craving  for  bread  and 
butter.  I  could  not  find  a  word  to  reply.  My  silence 
puzzled  her,  and  her  eyes  wandered  over  my  person, 
as  if  seeking  an  explanation  from  the  fashion  and  texture 
of  my  clothes.  She  then  looked  confused,  apparently 
from  having  discovered  her  error.  It  was  clear  that 
she  had  mistaken  me  for  some  hungry  travelling  arti- 
san, whose  eyes  had  been  fascinated  by  the  well-fur- 
nished table  in  the  summer  house.  But  my  dress 
(thanks  to  my  mother's  care)  removed  that  impression. 
She  soon  resumed  her  easy  manner,  and  lifting  the 
latch  of  the  garden-gate,  she  asked  me  to  come  in. 
<'This  is  our  mother's  birth-day,"  said  she,  **and  I  am 
sure  my  parents  will  be  glad  if  you  will  partake  of  our 
Jittle  entertainment." 

Who  could  resist  such  an  invitation?     What  boy  of 


130  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

eighteen  but  would  Iir.ve  gone  out  of  liis  way,  nay  out 
of  his  wits  on  such  an  occasion?  I  accompanied  her 
to  the  summer-house.  Fitlelio  followed  us,  sniffing  and 
wagging  his  tail  ;  and  with  good  reason,  for  the  table 
was  luxuriously  set  out  with  delicate  white  bread,  fresh 
butter,  milk,  cold  ham,  fruit,  and  every  thing,  in  short, 
that  couh.1  gladden  the  heart  of  dog  as  well  as  of  man. 
She  told  me  to  help  myself,  while  she  took  care  of  Fi- 
delio  ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were  all  on  the  best 
terms  imaginable,  especially  Fidelio,  who  alternately 
reposed  his  white  taper  nose  upon  our  hostess's  knee, 
or  fed  out  of  her  hand.  I  was  envious  of  the  privileges 
granted  to  a  quadruped,  and  called  him  away,  before 
his  hunger  was  satisfied  ;  but  I  had  soon  cause  to  rue 
my  selfishness. 

When  the  children  had  supped,  they  all  ran  out  into 
the  garden,  leaving  me  tete-a-tete  with  my  divinity. 
She  told  me  that  her  name  was  Annette,  that  the  child- 
ren were  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  that  her  parents, 
who  had  gone  to  visit  the  forest-master's  mother,  would 
soon  come  in.  In  return,  I  told  her  all  my  family 
concerns,  with  the  object  of  my  journey.  All  the  en- 
thusiasm of  my  nature  broke  forth,  and  I  dilated  on  my 
mother's  love  for  me,  her  sacrifices  and  privations,  till 
tears  flowed  in  torrents  down  the  cheeks  of  both  speaker 
and  auditor.  Our  hands  came  in  contact,  and  it  is  hard 
to  say  how  long  they  might  have  continued  locked  in 
one  another,  had  not  Annette  started  up  from  her  seat, 
w^ith  an  exclamation  of  terror.  I  was  alarmed,  and  my 
eyes  followed  in  the  direction  of  hers,  to  the  furthest 
corner  of  the  summer  house,  where  a  cut-glass  bowl, 
full  of  cream,  stood  on  a  little  claw  table,  and  there 
was  Fidelio,  with  his  paws  resting  on  the  edge,  his 
ears  laid  back,  and  his  tail  vvagging,  while  he  stretched 
out  his  nose  towards  the  enticing  beverage. 

'<Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  the  aff'righted  girl, 
*<  if  he  should  throw  down  the  bowl!"  ^*  Fidelio! 
come  down,  sir!"  but  I  spoke  too  late.  In  his  effort  to 
reach  ihe  cream,  the  table  was  upset,  and  the  glass 
shivered  on  the  pebbled  floor.  Annette  sprung  up 
pale  as  ashes. 


OF   GERMAN  LIFE.  131 

<^  Unfortunate  girl  that  I  am!"  she  exclaimed,  ^^  my 
father!  my  poor  mother!" 

I  flew  at  the  dog,  which  crouched  trembling  at  my 
feet,  and  seemed  to  imjolore  mercy — but  I  felt  none.  I 
seized  him  savagely  by  the  neck,  threw  him  against  the 
wall,  and  ran  for  my  stick  to  chastise  him  further.  ^'  Oh ! 
don't  hurt  the  poor  animal,"  cried  she,  entreatingly. 
<^  It  was  not  his  fault — it  was  mine,  not  to  have  thought 
of  the  probability  of  such  an  accident,  and  to  have  put 
the  bowl  out  of  the  way." 

But  1  was  deaf  to  her  entreaties,  till  she  clung  to  m)?" 
arms  and  cried,  "  Pray,  pray,  don't  hurt  the  poor  dog! 
For  my  sake  don't  hurt  him!"  This  last  appeal  was  irre- 
sistible— I  dropped  the  stick,  and  contented  myself  with 
kicking  Fidelio  out  of  the  summer-house.  Annette's 
agitation,  however,  did  not  subside.  On  the  contrary, 
every  moment  that  passed  seemed  to  augment  it.  She 
looked  first  at  me,  and  then  towards  the  garden-gate. 
1  thought  I  divined  the  cause  of  her  anxiety.  I  ques- 
tioned her,  and  found  that  I  was  not  mistaken.  *^  That 
glass,"  said  she,  '^  was  the  birth-day  present  which  my 
father  designed  for  my  mother.  He  sent  for  it  to  Dres- 
den, and  desired  me  to  fill  it  with  cream,  intending  to 
surprise  her  with  it  on  their  return  from  walking.  And 
now!  Oh  dear,  oh  dear!  My  father  is  ver}^  kind-heart- 
ed, but  a  little  hasty  and  passionate.  Dear  Herr  Stahl, 
do  me  a  favour  ;  leave  me  directly.  I  should  have  been 
very  glad  could  you  have  staid  with  us  to-night.  I 
meant  to  have  asked  my  parents  to  propose  it  to  you, 
I  wished  you  to  tell  my  mother  all  you  have  been  tel- 
ling me  concerning  yours.  For  she,  too,  has  worked 
hard,  and  sacrificed  herself  for  her  child.  What  a  pity 
it  is  that  you  must  go!" 

These  words  were  uttered  so  feelingly  that  they  sank 
into  my  heart,     <^  And  mus-f  1  then  go?"  I  exclaimed. 

*'  Oh  yes,  you  must  indeed.  The  first  moment  of  my 
father's  anger  is  terrible.  He  would  ill-treat  your  dog. 
He  might  kill  him — and  then — he  might  say  something 
disagreeable  to  you." 

<*  And  shall  I  leave  you  to  meet  his  displeasure  alone?'^ 
cried  I,  terrified  at  the  probable  consequences. 


132  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

^<  Oh,  I  have  nothing  to  fear,  because  he  loves  me. 
But  do,  pray,  go  ;  only  think  how  painful  it  would  be 
to  my  mother  to  have  a  stranger  witness  her  husband's 
infirmity.  Indeed,  he  has  no  power  to  command  him- 
self.     He  cannot  help  it." 

It  was  impossible  for  me  to  hesitate  any  longer,  and  I 
departed  after  vowing  never  to  forget  her.  An  oppressive 
feeling,  however,  came  over  me,  when  I  had  closed  the 
garden-gate,  and  found  myself  once  more  on  the  high- 
road. I  longed  to  know  the  end  of  this  unfortunate  ad- 
venture and  to  ascertain  that  the  poor  girl  was  not  sub- 
jected through  my  fault,  to  any  violence  from  her  harsh 
falher.  I  accordingly  concealed  myself  behind  the 
thickest  part  of  the  hedge,  and  soon  after,  heard  a  quick 
heavy  tread  approaching  the  summer-house.  I  gently 
separated  the  twigs,  and  saw  a  large  coarse-featured  man 
enter.  For  some  time  I  heard  him  laugh  and  speak 
quietly,  though  I  could  not  well  distinguish  what  he  said, 
as  the  children  were  making  a  noise  at  the  same  time. 
I  concluded  that  the  storm  had  blown  over,  and  was 
about  to  proceed  on  my  way,  when  an  exclamation,  or 
to  express  myself  more  correctly,  an  execration,  some- 
what unbecoming  a  churchman,  burst  forth  in  a  tone  of 
thunder,  '^  What  is  this  ?  Who  has  done  this  ?"  My 
blood  rushed  to  my  heart  at  the  sound. 

•'Dear  father?"  said  the  low,  trembling  voice  of  An- 
nette. 

•'  I  szy  — who  has  done  this  ?"  he  repeated  almost  in 
a  scream,  his  voice  and  his  choler  rising  in  equal  measure. 

"  Forgive  me,  papa,"  said  the  girl  hesitatingly,  and  at 
the  same  moment  I  heard  the  report  of  two  slaps,  fol- 
lowed by  audible  sobs.  My  first  impulse  was  to  grasp 
my  stick  tighter,  and  my  second  to  run  towards  the 
o-ate.  When  there,  however,  I  checked  myself,  and  stop- 
ped, irresolute  how  to  proceed.  A  rash  intrusion  might 
nave  occasioned  a  new  paroxysm  of  rage  in  the  furious 
man  ;  and  perhaps  subjected  her  whom  I  wished  to  as- 
sist, to  fresh  brutality.  Yet  honour  would  not  suffer 
me  to  leave  the  poor  victim  unsupported.  I  raised  the 
latch,  but  found  that  the  bolt  was  drawn  inside,  and  at 
the  same  time  I  saw  Annette  go  into  the  house,  holding 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  133 

her  handkerchief  to  her  face,  while  the  pastor  came  out 
of  the  summer-house,  and  walked  to  and  fro  with  hasty 
strides  upon  the  gravel-walk  before  it,  as  if  to  cool  him- 
self. I  darted  a  look  of  indignation  at  the  savage,  which 
he  could  not  see,  and  walked  slowly  home. 

I  was  still  nearly  two  leagues  from  the  place  where 
I  had  proposed  to  pass  the  night — but  I  could  not  pre- 
vail on  myself  to  continue  my  journey.  A  secret  mon- 
itor whispered  me  not  to  part  thus  from  Annette.  1 
thought  it  my  duty  to  implore  her  pardon,  and,  if 
possible,  to  console  her  for  the  cruel  indignity  she  had 
suffered  for  my  sake.  I  sought  the  wretched  hovel  that 
professed  to  give  entertainment  to  travellers,  and  as  soon 
as  it  was  quite  dark,  I  returned  to  the  pastor's  abode, 
in  hopes  of  getting  a  moment's  conversation  with  his 
daughter,  leaving  Fidelio  behind,  lest  he  should  bark  and 
betray  me. 

I  hovered  about  the  house  till  the  church  clock  struck 
ten,  when  the  lights  disappeared  from  behind  the  Vene- 
tian blinds  of  what  I  supposed  to  be  the  sitting-room  ; 
and  glimmered  from  other  w^indows  in  various  parts  of 
the  house — as  if  the  inhabitants  had  retired  to  their  re- 
spective sleeping-rooms.  I  had  before  remarked  a  little 
wooden  balcony  in  the  upper  story,  adorned  with  a 
luxuriant  vine,  and  several  flower-pots;  all  arranged  with 
so  much  taste,  as  led  me  to  conclude  that  it  could  be- 
long only  to  Annette.  I  watched  anxiousl}^  for  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  light  there,  also.  It  came  at  last  ;  and  a 
shadow  wiiich  every  now  and  then  darkened  the  win- 
dow, proved  my  conjectures  right. 

It  was  long  before  the  other  lights  were  extinguished  ; 
but  as  soon  as  they  were,  I  crept  along  close  under  the 
window,  and  coughed, — at  first  very  low,  then  louder. 
I  was  heard,  for  tiie  shadow  I  had  observed  darker  and 
more  distinct ;  the  w^indow  opened,  and  a  woman's  head 
appeared. 

'^  Annette!"  said  I,  in  a  low,  but  tender  tone.  I  was 
answered — not  by  Annette,  but  by  the  loud  and  joyous 
bark  of  Fidelio,  close  to  my  ear.  The  window  closed 
abruptly,  and  both  shadow  and  light  vanished.  I  curs- 
ed the  beast  in  a  rage,  while  I  ran  off  terrified  lest  the 
Vol.  IL~M 


134  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

pastor,  alarmed  by  the  noise,  should  come  out  and  dis- 
cover me  skulking  about  his  premises.  The  inn  was 
but  a  few  hundred  yards  distant,  and  I  was  soon  safely 
housed.  I  had  not  forgiven  Fidelio,  who  unused  to 
such  a  rough  requital  of  his  affectionate  salutations,  be- 
gan to  whine  and  fawn  upon  me,  as  if  to  ask  the  mean- 
ing of  the  change.  In  spite  of  my  vexation  I  could  not 
remain  insensible  to  his  contrition  and  caresses,  but 
imitating  the  magnanimity  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton  towards 
his  little  dog  Diamond,  I  only  reproached  him  gently 
for  having  made  me  repent  that  I  had  not  followed  my 
mother's  advice  to  leave  him  at  home. 

By  sunrise  next  morning  I  was  ready  to  proceed. 
While  swallowing  a  basin  of  milk  and  a  crust,  the  land- 
lord informed  me  that  the  pastor  was  Annette's  step- 
father ;  the  extreme  poverty  of  her  mother  having  led 
to  this  second  marriage — adding,  that  'Uiis  reverence'' 
was  a  very  worthy  man,  and  a  *'  vigorous  labourer  in 
the  Lord's  vineyard." 

As  I  wended  my  way  through  woods,  fields,  and  vil- 
lages, refreshed  by  the  cool  morningbreeze,  and  cheered 
by  the  sun,  what  a  different  aspect  did  the  world  seem 
to  wear,  from  what  it  had  ever  done  before!  And  yet 
yesterday  the  sun  had  shone  as  brightly — the  weather- 
cocks had  pointed  the  same  way,  and  the  scenery, 
though  perhaps  more  pleasing,  had  been  of  the  same 
character.  But,  since  then,  I  had  fallen — *^  how  many 
fathom  deep  ?" — in  love  ! 

I  should  never  come  to  the  end  of  my  story,  if  I  were  to 
relate  all  the  extravagant  and  absurd  resolutions  and  pro- 
jects which  passed  through  my  brain  on  the  road  to  Dres- 
den. They  were  worthy  in  every  respect  of  a  student  of 
eighteen,  and  I  was  inexpressibly  happy  in  my  folly. 
The  object  of  my  journey  was  not,  however,  forgotten 
— on  the  contrary,  it  was  closely  interwoven  with  the 
plot  of  my  romance. 

I  forgave  Fidelio  his  misdemeanours — since,  but  for 
him,  my  adventure  in  the  pastor's  summer-house  might 
have  been  nothing  more  than  a  common-place  meeting, 
which  both  Annette  and  I  should  have  forgotten  before 
the  end  of  a  week.     Her  crimson  cheek  and  tearful 


OF  GERMAN  LirE.  135 

eyes  were  now  continually  before  me,  rousing  all  the 
quixotism  of  my  nature  ;  and  for  her  sake  I  was  ready 
to  brave  difficulty  and  danger  in  every  imaginable  form. 
The  nearer  I  approached  the  end  of  my  journey,  the 
deeper  I  plunged  in  love,  and  the  higher  I  soared  in 
courage  and  enterprise. 

I  reached  the  city-gate  just  as  the  guard  was  turning 
out,  and  I  was  almost  deafened  by  the  confused  uproar 
of  drums,  carriages,  and  wagons,  people  screaming, 
and  horses  prancing,  in  the  midst  of  a  drove  of  cattle. 
All  my  heroism  dwindled  away  to  nothing,  when  I 
found  myself  elbowed  and  pushed  on  every  side  by  the 
crowd,  who  were  running  in  all  directions  out  of  the 
way  of  the  oxen.  Even  Fidelio's  gaiety  was  quenched, 
and  he  slunk  along  close  to  my  heels. 

As  soon  as  I  got  clear  of  this  confusion,  my  first 
care  was  to  look  about  for  an  inn  of  respectable  appear- 
ance; and  calling  to  mind  all  the  various  tavern  exploits  of 
travelling  students,  which  I  had  heard  narrated  by  my 
companions,  as  well  as  the  importance  and  privileges 
granted  by  courtesy  to  the  academical  habit,  I  recovered 
my  spirits. 

As  it  was  too  late  in  the  day  to  call  upon  Damberg, 
I  made  some  inquiries  respecting  him  of  the  landlord. 

*^  Herr  Damberg!"  replied  he,  with  an  air  of  pro- 
found veneration,  "  a  most  substantial  firm — the  firm 
of  his  sons  Carl  and  Frederick  Damberg!  They  are 
the  king's  bankers !  A  year  or  two  ago,  the  house 
found  itself  in  a  little  difficulty,  but  nothing  of  conse- 
quence— nothing  but  what  might  happen  to  any  man. 
It  happened  to  myself  not  long  since  ;  but  it  blew  over, 
and  the  bank  is  restored  to  its  former  respectability." 

I  asked  how  Damberg's  affairs  came  to  be  so  soon 
arranged  after  so  extensive  a  failure. 

'^Through  rich  and  powerful  relations,"  said  he, 
'^powerful  friends;  all  persons  of  great  influence  and 
credit!  And  old  Damberg  himself- — a  clever,  long- 
headed man — he  is  said  to  be  a  great  favourite  at  court, 
and  that  the  king's  private  affairs  all  pass  through  his 
hands." 

I  asked  him  how  his  character  stood  for  integrity. 
"Irreproachable,    sir,"   he  replied.     <<  A  man  of  the 


136  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

highest  respectability — otherwise  how  should  he  pos- 
sess the  king's  confidence?" 

This  was  enough  to  revive  all  the  most  sanguine 
hopes  of  success  with  which  I  had  set  out.  Damberg 
still  had  property — was  an  honourable  man — and  my 
father's  friend.  How,  then,  could  I  doubt  his  willing- 
ness to  satisfy  a  claim  like  ours! 

Attired  in  my  Heidelberg  costume — my  trusty  hazel 
stick  in  my  hand — my  cap  saucily  perched  on  one  side, 
and  imitating,  as  nearly  as  a  youth  of  my  pacific  and 
poetical  temperament  could,  the  swaggering  gait  of  my 
student  friends — I  set  out  next  morning  at  what  my 
landlord  told  me  was  the  proper  hour,  to  visit  the  great 
banker.  I  allowed  Fidelioto  follow  me,  because  I  had 
no  inclination  to  pay  for  another  batch  of  broken  panes, 
by  shutting  him  up,  as  I  had  done  the  night  before. 
On  the  way,  I  repealed,  for  the  last  time,  the  discourse 
I  had  prepared  for  this  occasion.  I  meant  to  begin 
piano — piano — in  a  tone  of  mild  entreaty,  and  if  that 
failed,  to  go  on  crescendo  through  all  the  degrees  of 
forte  diUdi fortissimo  admonition,  importunity,  and  me- 
nace. After  walking  for  some  time,  the  laquais  de 
place,  who  showed  me  the  way,  stopped  at  a  large 
palace-looking  edifice.  As  I  ascended  the  broad  flight 
of  steps,  and  saw  the  door  opened  to  my  conductor's 
ring,  by  a  servant  in  rich  liver}'-,  my  courage  suddenly 
fell  below  zero.  The  lackey's  demand,  if  Herr  Dam- 
berg was  at  home,  was  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and 
I  was  ushered  into  a  large  and  elegantly  furnished  apart- 
ment. 

My  breathing  was  oppressed.  I  unbuttoned  m.y 
coat,  and  wiped  the  perspiration  off  my  brows.  I 
dared  not  advance  upon  the  rich  carpet,  lest  I  should 
injure  its  fair  texture  with  my  brass-heeled  dusty  boots. 
The  splendid  display  seemed  also  to  impose  on  Fidelio, 
who,  contrary  to  his  usual  habits,  kept  close  to  my 
side,  and  only  cast  side-long  looks  at  the  chairs  and  so- 
fas, all  glorious  with  crimson  satin,  and  gold,  which  I 
could  scarcely  believe  were  intended  for  use. 

In  a  few  minutes  another  door  opened,  and  Herr 
Damberg  entered.     He  was  a  well-formed,  well-dressed 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  137 

little  man,  with  sharp  features,  and  a  countenance  more 
expressive  of  cleverness  than  feeling.  I  could  hear  the 
throbbing  of  my  heart  as  he  approached  me.  His  man- 
ner was  smooth  and  aflfable,  while  he  seemed  to  scan 
me  from  head  to  foot. 

"To  what  am  I  indebted  for  this  honour?'^  said  he. 

<«  My  name  is  Johannes  Stahl,'^  I  replied,  *Uhe  son 
of  your  friend,  the  late  Counsellor  Stahl." 

He  turned  pale,  but  only  for  a  moment.  His  coun- 
tenance immediately  assumed  an  expression  of  sorrow. 

"  Your  father  was  indeed  my  friend,  and  a  most  ex- 
cellent high-minded  man.  How  much  greater,  then, 
must  be  my  regret  for  the  cruel  circumstances  that 
compel  me  to  remain  in  debt  to  his  family.  My  dear 
young  friend,  your  countenance  assures  me  that  you 
are  worthy  of  having  been  blessed  with  such  a  father. 
Could  you  but  look  into  my  heart!  Could  you  but  con- 
ceive the  anguish  I  have  suffered  through  the  conscious- 
ness of  being  the  innocent  cause  of  so  much  ruin — " 

"  My  father's  friend  could  not  feel  otherwise, '^  said 
I,  moved  by  his  words,  and  the  tone  in  which  they 
were  uttered.  ''How  will  my  poor  mother  rejoice, 
and  how  shall  1  speak  my  gratitude  for  thus  removing 
my  apprehensions  respecting  the  payment  of  your  debt 
to  us!'' 

"Alas!  what  shall  I  say!  What  words  can  express 
the  pain  I  feel  at  being  under  the  necessity  of  disap- 
pointing your  hopes! — Paym.ent  is  utterly  impossible." 

"Impossible!"  I  repeated,  hastily  and  amazed. 

''It  is  indeed  impossible!"  said  he.  "Heaven  only 
knows  how  my  heart  bleeds  to  say  it.  I  am  compelled 
to  remain  in  your  excellent  mother's  debt,  for  I  have 
not  the  means  of  paying  her." 

I  began  to  see  through  the  hypocrite.  My  blood 
boiled,  but  I  contained  myself.  "  It  is  dijSicult  to  sup- 
pose a  man  in  your  affluent  circumstances  unable  to 
discharge  so  inconsiderable  a  debt.  You  must  be  jest- 
ing, sir." 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  it  were  so — but  these  are  not 
jesting  matters.     Believe  me — " 

"Believe  you!    No."    I  interrupted  warmly.    "You 

VOL.    II. M  2 


138  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

inhabit  a  palace  fit  for  the  king  himself.  You  are 
clothed  in  purple,  and  fare  sumptuously  every  day — 
whilst  you  sufi'er  the  widow  of  your  friend  to  starve, 
after  having  robbed  her  of  the  provision  intrusted  to 
your  care!  And  yet,  you  ask  me  to  believe  your 
word!"  My  indignation  was  no  longer  controllable. 
My  utterance  was  loud  and  rapid.  Damberg  listened 
with  apparent  coldness  ;    but  he  was  paler  than  before. 

"  This  warmth  is  most  becoming  in  a  son,  my  dear 
friend,"  said  he  with  a  sneer.  <'  But  suffer  it  not  to 
confound  your  naturally  good  understanding.  It  is  a 
pity  your  father  did  not  bring  you  up  to  business.  The 
fact  is  notorious  to  every  soul  in  Dresden  that  I  surren- 
dered my  property  without  reserve  to  my  creditors;  and 
that  I  am  to  all  intents  and  purposes  a  beggar,  existing 
on  the  bounty  of  my  children,  to  whom  this  house  and 
all  that  you  see  belongs." 

«' Vile,  despicable  wretch!"  cried  I,  not  suffering  him 
to  proceed  further.  I  could  scarcely  speak  for  rage. 
*«I  see  through  your  hypocrisy,  and  will  expose  it  to 
all  the  world." 

<*  Just  as  you  please,  Herr  Stahl,"  said  he,  opening 
the  door,  and  bowing  me  out,  with  the  same  cold  sneer 
upon  his  lips  as  before.  ''  I  should  be  sorry  to  detain 
you  longer." 

I  was  provoked  to  frenzy.  "Swindler!  Villain!" 
I  exclaimed,  seizing  the  little  man  by  the  collar  of  his 
coat,  and  shaking  him  with  all  my  might,  while  Fide- 
lio,  as  if  animated  with  similar  feelings  of  indignation, 
flew  at  his  legs.  The  Banker's  screams  brought  the 
servants  to  his  assistance,  and  before  I  had  time  to  res- 
cue him  from  the  dog — for  I  had  no  wish  to  do  him 
bodily  harm — I  was  taken  and  pinioned  by  four  or  five 
strong  fellows  in  livery.  Damberg  retired  several  paces 
towards  the  middle  of  the  room,  where  he  stood  tremb- 
ling and  pale  with  rage  and  fright.  <'  Take  him  to  the 
police,"  he  said  to  the  servants,  darting  a  revengeful 
and  malignant  scowl  at  me.  <^I'll  follow  as  soon  as 
the  carriage  can  be  got  ready." 

They  were  dragging  me  away  in  obedience  to  his 
commands,  when  he  called  to  them  to  stop. 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  139 

^^  I  have  changed  my  mind,"  said  he,  *'let  him  go; 
force  should  not  be  opposed  to  force.  The  law  shall 
do  its  own  work.  You  are  all  witnesses  of  the  assault.^' 
This  said,  he  disappeared  through  the  same  door  by 
which  he  had  entered;  and  I  took  my  departure,  some- 
what ashamed  of  my  prowess,  and  not  a  little  anxious  as 
to  its  consequences.  The  most  prudent  measure  that  sug- 
gested itself  to  my  mind,  was  to  throw  myself  without 

delay,  upon  the  protection  of  the  Minister  Von  T . 

I  inquired  his  residence  of  the  first  person  I  met  on 
going  out  of  Damberg's  house,  and  ran  thither  with  all 
possible  speed.  But  what  was  my  disappointment  at 
finding  that  he  was  just  gone  to  court,  and  was  not  to  be 
seen  till  the  next  morning!  Vexed  and  disheartened  I 
returned  to  my  inn,  and  had  no  sooner  sat  down  to  din- 
ner (for  I  had  not  yet  attained  the  age  when  troubles 
diminish  the  appetite)  than  I  was  arrested  and  carried 
before  the  Director  of  Police,  an  elderly  man  of  austere 
and  inflexible  countenance.  As  I  was  led  up  to  him  he 
asked,  ^' What  is  this  boy?"  and  appeared  surprised  by  the 
officer's  reply.  My  accuser's  complaint  had,  doubtless, 
prepared  him  to  see  a  ferocious  fire-eater;  whereas  I  was 
a  youth  of  gentle  aspect,  with  blue  eyes  and  fair  com- 
plexion. Though  tall,  I  was  slight  of  form,  and  hitherto 
all  my  efforts  to  induce  the  growth  of  whiskers  had 
proved  fruitless,  so  that  1  was  destitute  of  the  most  in- 
dispensable attribute  of  a  cut-throat. 

The  Director  examined  and  cross-examined  me  as  to 
my  business  in  Dresden,  and  then  with  respect  to  what 
had  occurred  in  Damberg's  house.  I  answered  openly 
to  all  his  interrogatories,  and  flattered  myself  that  he 
looked  at  me  com.passionately. 

"I  am  sorry  for  you,  young  man!"  said  he,  after  some 
moments'  consideration;  "the  law  in  such  cases  is  very 
strict,  and  your  impetuosity  has  betrayed  you  into  a 
breach  of  it,  that  must  be  attended  with  unpleasant  con- 
sequences." 

<<Does  the  law,  then,  forbid  the  injured  to  seek  re- 
dress?— to  resist  robbery  and  oppression  ?"  I  demanded 
warmly. 

<<  Itforbids  violence  of  all  kinds,"  replied  the  Direc- 


140  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

tor.  It  protects  the  citizen  from  the  passions  of  such 
as  would  take  the  law  into  their  own  hands." 

<^  I  did  not  hurt  him,'^  said  I,  <^  I  only  wished  to 
frighten  him  into  honesty." 

*^  But  Herr  Damberg's  legs  bear  witness  to  your  hav- 
ing set  your  dog  upon  him." 

'' Pardon  me,  Herr  Director,  I  must  deny  that  part 
of  the  assertion.  My  dog  flew  at  him  of  its  own  accord, 
and  I  even  endeavoured  to  prevent  the  mischief,  much 
as  the  swindler  deserved  what  he  met  with,  and  more 
too." 

^<  Your  intentions  are  nothing  to  the  purpose,  since 
you  cannot  prove  them.  You  have  offended  the  laws  in 
the  person  of  one  of  our  most  influential  citizens.  He 
chooses  to  prosecute  you  for  the  offence,  and  you  must 
stand  3^our  trial;  till  then  you  must  go  to  prison." 

<'  Prison!"  I  repeated,  in  a  tone  of  grief  and  terror^ 
for  I  thought  instantly  of  my  poor  mother,  and  of  what 
she  would  feel  at  hearing  that  her  son  was  in  gaol.  Tears 
started  to  my  eyes,  though  I  did  not  suffer  them  to  gush 
forth. 

^<0h!  why  send  me  to  prison,  sir?  It  will  break  my 
mother's  heart." 

«'  I  cannot  help  it,"  was  the  brief  answer. 

'<  But  if  I  can  procure  bail  ?"  said  I. 

"  If  your  own  account  of  yourself  is  true,  you  are  a 
stranger  here;  who  then  would  bail  you  ?" 

<^The  minister  Count  Von "  I  replied,  boldy. 

The  Director's  deep-set  penetrating  eyes  seemed  to 
look  me  through  and  through.  Aftera  moment's  thought 
he  pronounced  a  short  dry  ^^No:"  and  rising  from  his 
seat,  gave  me  in  charge  to  the  officers  in  waiting.  I 
would  have  remonstrated  further,  but  they  hurried  me 
away." 

It  is  impossible  for  me  to  describe  the  conflict  of  pas- 
sions by  which  I  was  assailed,  when  the  door  of  my  dis- 
mal cell  was  closed  upon  me.  Rage,  fear,  hatred,  love, 
and  grief  distracted  me  by  turns.  My  first  sober  thought 
was  to  write  to  the  Minister  to  claim  his  interference, 
on  behalf  of  his  old  friend's  son.  But  how  v/as  I  to  get 
materials  for  writing  ?  and  who  would  deliver  my  letter  ? 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  141 

Despair  again  seized  me,  and  I  stamped  about  my  dun- 
geon, healing  my  head  with  my  clenched  fists,  and 
cursing  all  tlie  dogs,,  bankers,  and  magistrates  in  the 
kingdom.  Enfeebled  and  exhausted  by  agitation,  I 
stumbled  over  a  wooden  bench.  The  counter  irritation 
produced  by  a  broken  shin,  proved  salutary.  By  de- 
grees my  fury  abated,  giving  way  to  a  variety  of  sad 
reflections.  I  thought  of  the  forlorn  condition  of  my 
poor  mother,  and  of  the  patient  and  ill-used  Annette. 
Softened  by  these  images,  a  flood  of  tears  came  to  my 
relief,  and  I  sobbed  aloud.  Something  Vv^arm  rubbed 
against  my  legs.  I  started,  and  looked  down,  when  the 
dim  light  just  enabled  me  to  distinguish  the  showy  coat 
of  Fidelio,  who  lay  crouching  under  the  bench  on  which 
I  sat.  He  must  have  followed  me  from  the  inn  to  the 
police  office,  and  from  thence  unobserved  b)^  the  gaoler 
into  the  prison.  The  poor  beast  licked  my  hand  so  af- 
fectionately, looking  up  in  my  face,  and  whining  with 
such  an  appearance  of  sympathy,  that  I  could  not  find 
it  in  my  heart  to  upbraid  him  with  having  brought  me 
into  such  a  ])erilous  situation,  by  officious  interference 
in  matters  which  did  not  concern  him. 

I  passed  two  weary,  never  ending  days,  and  as  many 
miserable,  restless  nights.  On  the  third  morning  I  was 
again  taken  before  the  director  of  police.  He  sat  writ- 
ing at  his  desk,  when  I  entered,  and  only  raised  his 
eyelids  for  an  instant,  without  discontinuing  his  occu- 
pation. While  waiting  his  pleasure,  I  employed  the 
time  in  examining  his  countenance,  endeavouring  to  read 
my  destiny  upon  it.  But  the  expression  was  as  cold, 
determined,  and  inscrutable  as  at  our  first  interview. 
He  finished  what  he  had  been  waiting,  gave  the  letter 
to  a  person  who  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  it,  and  then 
beckoned  to  me  to  approach. 

"You  are  free,"  he  said,  without  altering  a  muscle. 

"  Thank  heaven!"  I  exclaimed. 

"And  the  minister,    Count  Von   A -"  subjoined 

the  magistrate, — "I  made  known  your  situation  to  his 
Excellency,  and  he  oiders  you  to  be  released  on  his  an- 
swering for  your  appearance  when  called  for.  Go  and 
thank  him." 


142  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

I  did  not  wait  a  second  command,  but  flew  to  the 
minister's.  He  was  at  home.  I  gave  my  name  to  the 
porter,  desiring  him  to  announce  me  to  his  master. 
But  the  old  man  leisurely  took  off  the  spectacles  through 
which  he  was  spelling  a  newspaper,  and  inspected  me 
from  head  to  foot,  before  he  vouchsafed  a  reply. 

'^  The  servants  there  in  the  antechamber  will  do  that," 
said  he,  gruffly,  after  due  deliberation  ;  ^'  it  is  their  bus- 
iness not  mine.'' 

Undismayed  by  his  ungracious  manner,  the  lot,  I  con- 
cluded, of  pedestrian  visitors,  especially  if,  as  in  my  case, 
their  outward  lustre  had  been  dimmed  by  a  three  days' 
sojourn  in  a  prison,  I  hurried  on  to  an  open  door  to  which 
he  pointed.  The  servants  were  all  civility  when  I  men- 
tioned my  name,  and  one  of  them  prepared  to  conduct  me 
to  the  Count,  when  he  looked  at  Fidelio  and  stopped.  I 
guessed  his  meaning,  and  begged  him  to  have  the  dog  shut 
up  till  my  return.  1  was  a  good  deal  agitated  on  en- 
tering the  room  where  the  count  was  sitting.  Though 
his  hair  was  silvered  and  his  figure  bowed  with  age,  his 
eye  still  beamed  with  the  animation  of  youth.  He  re- 
ceived me  with  a  kindness  and  cordiality  which  at  once 
relieved  my  apprehensions.  I  would  have  thanked  him 
for  having  interested  himself  about  my  liberation,  but 
he  would  not  suffer  me  to  proceed. 

'^  No  thanks — no  thanks,  Herr  Stahl!"  he  said,  good- 
humouredly  ;  '^your  father  and  I  were  schoolfellows 
and  friends.  I  could  not  do  less  than  help  you  out  of  a 
predicament  which,  with  less  impetuosity  on  your  part, 
might  have  been  avoided.  On  first  assuming  the  stu- 
dent's habit,  young  men  are  too  apt  to  imagine,  that  a 
reputation  for  courage  is  to  be  attained  by  giving  way 
to  their  passions.  But,  I  trust,  this  experience  will  suf- 
fice to  convince  you  of  their  error." 

Kindly  as  this  was  said,  I  felt  the  blush  of  shame 
arise,  and  my  eyes  sunk  to  the  ground.  I  stammered 
out  an  excuse  ;  and,  I  believe,  I  should  have  retired 
without  venturing  to  say  a  w'ord  of  the  affair  which 
had  brought  me  to  Dresden,  had  it  not  involved  my  mo- 
ther's interests  as  much,  or  even  more,  than  mine. 

*'  Yours  is  a  bad  case,"  said  the  minister,  after  I  had 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  143 

detailed  the  circumstances  which  had  brought  me  into 
such  disastrous  contact  with  Damberg  5  ''I  know  your 
adversary  well.  Conciliatory  measures  alone  could 
have  obtained  any  concession  from  him.  But  your  im- 
prudence has,  I  fear,  shut  the  door  to  all  accommoda- 
tion. He  might  have  been  induced  to  make  some  sac- 
rifice ;  but  once  openly  offended,  he  is  intractable.^^ 

*«  But  cannot  the  law  compel  restitution  where  the 
case  is  so  clearly  one  of  such  barefaced  knavery  ?"  I 
demanded  with  some  heat. 

*<You  use  strong  language,  my  young  friend.  But, 
unfortunately  for  you,  the  law,  if  not  equity,  is  on  his 
side.  Long  before  his  failure  he  transferred  a  great 
part  of  his  property  to  his  mother.  She  died  about  the 
time  of  the  bankruptcy,  leaving  her  immense  wealth  to 
her  two  grandsons  ;  who,  being  minors,  the  bank  is 
carried  on  by  Damberg  in  their  names.  The  whole 
transaction,  however  questionable  in  its  object,  was  ex- 
ecuted in  strict  conformity  to  the  law.^' 

«'  Oh  Heavens!''  I  exclaimed  in  disgust,  "  is  this  the 
law  w^hich  my  father  condemned  me  to  study  ? — This 
the  law  by  which  I  am  in  future  to  act  and  judge?" 

Apparently  unmindful  of  my  interruption,  the  Count 
continued  : — ''  Damberg  said  the  truth  when  he  told 
you  that  he  was  living  at  the  cost  of  his  children.  He 
has  not  a  Kreutzer  which  he  can  legally  call  his  own  ; 
and,  far  from  its  being  possible  for  any  court  of  law  to 
compel  him  to  pay  you  out  of  his  son's  property,  they 
might  call  him  to  account  for  any  such  appropriation  of 
their  funds  on  coming  of  age." 

"  My  poor,  destitute  mother!"  was  the  exclamation 
which  broke  from  my  lips,  while  tears  burst  from  my 
eyes  in  spite  of  all  my  efforts  to  restrain  them.  '^  I 
ivillgo  to  the  King!"  I  cried,  starting  up  in  desperation  : 
*'  Though  justice  may  be  a  cold,  dead  letter,  to  the  ad- 
ministrators of  law,  it  cannot  be  so  to  the  father  of  his 
people!  I  will  unmask  to  him  the  villain  who  thus  de- 
vours the  substance  of  the  widow  and  the  orphan.  The 
King  shall " 

How  long  I  might  have  been  suffered  to  try  the  good- 
natured  minister's  patience  wath  such  raving,  I  know  not, 


144  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

had  1  not  been  silenced  by  the  sudden  apparition  of  Fi- 
delio  at  the  window,  which  led  by  a  flight  of  steps  into 
the  garden.  Here  it  was  that  the  greyhound  stood  peer- 
ing anxiously  through  one  of  the  large  panes  of  plate 
glass.  As  yet  he  had  not  discovered  me,  for  I  was  at 
the  farthest  extremity  of  the  room,  watching  his  mo- 
lions  in  terror,  too  well  knowing  his  summary  way  of 
proceeding  in  suc^i  cases,  not  to  expect,  every  moment, 
to  see  him  dash  through  the  window. 

<<  Well! — and  what  now  ?''  asked  the  minister,  won- 
dering what  had  so  suddenly  checked  my  eloquence, 
and  occasioned  the  stare  of  consternation  with  which  I 
looked  towards  tlie  garden.  His  eyes  followed  into  the 
direction  of  mine,  and  Fidelio  answered  the  inquiry, 
by  making  a  spring  at  the  window,  which  sent  the  glass 
flying  in  all  directions  ;  and  the  intruder  came  limping 
across  the  room,  leaving  the  tracks  of  his  bleeding  paws 
on  the  polished  inlaid  floor. 

I  attempted  to  apologize  for  the  irreverent  conduct  of 
my  dog,  but  the  inarticulate  sounds  were  drowned  by 
his  yells  of  mingled  joy  and  pain. 

''It  is  of  no  consequence,"  said  the  kind  old  man, 
pitying  my  confusion,  ''say  nothing  more  about  it. 
You  must  go  to  the  King  to-morrow,  at  twelve  precise- 
ly ;  I'll  take  care  that  you  shall  be  admitted  to  his  pre- 
sence. His  I^.Iajesty  will  be  alone  :  speak  freely  and 
openly  :  he  is  good-heared,  and  likes  frankness.  Let 
me  see  you  after  the  audience.     Till  then,  adieu." 

I  took  my  leave  at  once,  confounded  and  affected  by 
his  kindness. 

«'But  remember  to  leave  your  dog  at  home,"  said  he, 
calling  after  me  as  I  closed  the  door  ;  my  cheeks  glow- 
ing with  shame,  1  departed.  I  was  so  thoroughly  vexed 
and  provoked  with  Fidelio,  that  I  was  no  sooner  out  of 
the  minister's  sight  than  I  kicked  him  angrily,  and 
swore  that  this  should  be  the  last  scrape  he  led  me  into. 

On  arriving  at  the  inn,  my  host  hesitated  to  admit 
within  his  doors  one  who  had  been  so  lately  in  the 
claws  of  the  police  :  but  when  I  told  him  that  I  had 
been  liberated  through  the  interference  of  the  prime 
minister,  and   that  he  had  extended   his  protection  to 


OP    GERMAN   LIFE.  145 

me,  out  of  regard  to  my  late  father,  the  fellow  bowed 
to  the  ground,  overwhelmed  me  with  expressions  of 
condolence  and  congratulation,  and,  calling  to  a  waiter 
to  bring  down  the  «<Herr  Student's  luggage" — viz., 
my  green  knapsack — from  the  garret  at  first  assigned  to 
me,  I  was  shown  into  the  best  vacant  apartment. 

My  first  care  was  to  make  myself  due  amends  for 
three  days  of  prison  fare.  1  then  stretched  myself  on 
the  sofa  to  digest  my  sour-krauts,  smoke  my  pipe,  and 
meditate  upon  the  eventful  audience  of  the  morrow. 
At  one  moment  the  idea  of  it  overwhelmed  me  with 
awe  and  apprehension  ;  while  at  the  next,  I  felt  eleva- 
ted to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  gratified  ambition.  The 
dazzling  medium  through  which  the  great  ones  of  this 
earth  appear  to  those  below  them,  prevents  our  seeing 
that  they  are  formed  of  the  same  frail  mortal  stuif  as 
ourselves. 

Tired,  as  I  was,  by  the  agitation  which  had  not  al- 
lowed me  to  close  my  eyes  during  my  imprisonment, 
I  could  not  sleep.  I  spent  the  night  in  tossing,  tumb- 
ling, and  turning  from  one  side  to  the  other.  Weary 
and  impatient  of  the  interminable  duration  of  darkness, 
1  jumped  out  of  bed  twenty  times  to  watch,  at  the  open 
window,  the  approach  of  day.  The  sun  rose  at  last, 
and  1  called  up  the  people  of  the  house  ;  1  had  my 
boots  polished,  and  my  clothes  brushed.  I  dressed 
and  undressed  again,  alwa3^s  finding  something  amiss 
in  my  toilet.  I  wandered  into  the  cafe  first,  taking  up 
one  newspaper  and  then  another,  but  nothing  could  fix 
my  attention.  My  watch  seemed  to  stand  still.  At 
length  the  clock  struck  eleven.  I  took  a  last  look  at 
myself  in  the  glass,  patted  Fidelio,  and,  shutting  the 
door  upon  him  hastily  to  prevent  his  following  me, 
sallied  forth  to  the  music  of  his  howl,  and  the  good 
wishes  of  my  landlord. 

I  walked  boldly  towards  the  palace.  My  feelings  of 
self-satisfaction  and  confidence  must  have  been  evident 
to  every  one  in  the  glances  of  exultation  which  I  cast 
on  the  people  who  passed  me  in  the  street,  when  I 
thought  that  I — Johannes  Stahl — a  boy  of  eighteen — 
was  on  the  road  to  an  honour  which  thousands  of  grey- 
VoL.  II.— N 


146  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

headed  men  might  sigh  for  in  vain.  I  was  not  merely 
going,  like  ordinary  courtiers,  to  kiss  the  royal  hand 
on  bended  knee — to  obtain  a  cursory  glance — at  most, 
an  indifferent  common-place  word  of  notice — but  I  was 
going  for  the  express  purpose  of  exposing  fraud,  and 
of  calling  upon  a  monarch  to  exercise  the  most  sacred 
of  a  sovereign's  duties — that  of  protecting  the  widow 
and  the  fatherless.  The  picture  I  should  present  of  my 
mother's  wrongs,  and  of  Damberg's  treachery,  should 
harrow  up  his  soul,  draw  tears  from  his  eyes,  and  in- 
dignation from  his  lips. 

My  vanity — of  which,  I  confess,  I  had  the  full  share 
of  an  only  son — blazed  forth  in  full  splendour  at  these 
thoughts,  and  I  continued  to  soliloquize  thus  : — 

*'  The  king  will  surely  cast  a  gracious  and  approving 
smile  upon  the  tall  and  blooming  youth,  who  stands 
fearlessly  before  his  throne  to  plead  the  cause  of  desti- 
tute innocence " 

<«  Devil  take  that  yelping  cur!"  screamed  a  harsh 
voice  behind  me.  I  turned  round  and  beheld  Fidelio 
scampering  along  the  dirty  street  (there  had  been  a 
shower  a  little  before),  regardless  of  the  white  pantaloons 
of  a  dandy  guardsman,  who  stumbled  into  the  kennel  in 
endeavouring  to  avoid  the  contact.  I  re-echoed  the  offi- 
cer's exclamation  with  even  greater  energy  :  but  the  pro- 
voking beast  heeded  neither  of  us.  His  wild  demonstra- 
tions of  delight,  and  the  officer's  rage,  soon  collected  a 
crowd  about  us.  Quaking  for  my  clean-brushed  gar- 
ments, I  shrunk  from  the  canine  caresses  which  me- 
naced them.  But  this  cause  of  anxiety  was  accompa- 
nied by  another.  How  was  I  to  get  rid  of  the  dog  ? — 
If  I  gave  him  in  charge  of  the  guard  at  the  palace-gate, 
how  could  I  be  sure  that  they  might  not  let  him  go, 
when  he  would  certainly  follow  me  into  the  royal  pre- 
sence— perhaps,  at  the  most  critical  point  of  my  speech, 
and  destroy  all  the  effect  which  I  intended  it  to  pro- 
duce! My  tormentor  resisted  all  my  endeavours  to 
drive  him  back.  Blows  and  kicks  only  made  him 
crouch  closer  to  my  feet — coaxing  succeeded  still  worse, 
for  then  he  jumped  up  and  licked  my  face,  leaving  the 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  147 

marks  of  his  dirty  paws  upon  my  breast.  In  short, 
there  was  no  resource  but  to  go  back  to  the  inn. 

The  landlord  was  standing  at  the  door,  and  expressed 
surprise  at  my  speedy  return. 

'^  Have  you  any  secure  place  where  this  beast  can  be 
locked  up,"  said  I. 

«' There  is  an  empty  stable  in  the  yard,"  he  replied, 
laughing  at  my  dilemma,  and  conducting  me  to  it.  On 
the  way  he  told  me  how  Fidelio  had  again  escaped  out 
of  my  room-window,  which,  in  the  perturbation  of  my 
spirits,  I  had  neglected  to  secure,  as  I  had  intended,  by 
means  of  the  shutters.  I  tied  him  up  myself  to  the 
manger  with  a  strong  rope,  locked  the  door,  and  put 
the  key  in  my  pocket.  "Are  you  quite  certain  there 
is  no  second  key  ?"  said  I  :  the  landlord  assured  me 
there  was  not. 

"  That  is  well — but,  for  fear  of  accidents,  you  had 
better  charge  your  people  to  be  on  the  look  out.  I  am 
ruined  for  ever  if  he  follows  me."  The  inn-keeper 
promised  to  be  answerable  for  the  prisoner's  safety,  and 
after  removing  sundry  patches  of  mud  from  my  habili- 
ments, I  set  out  a  second  tim^e.  It  wanted  but  a  few 
minutes  of  twelve,  and  the  palace  was  a  full  mile  from 
the  inn.  I  ran,  and  arrived,  breathless,  just  as  the 
clock  was  striking. 

On  presenting  myself  to  the  officer  on  guard,  who 
seemed  to  expect  me,  he  gave  me  in  charge  to  another, 
who  conducted  me  across  the  lofty  vestibule  and  up  a 
wide  marble  staircase.  I  followed  him  in  silence  and 
trepidation  through  a  long  suite  of  apartments,  the  mag- 
nificence and  stillness  of  which  struck  me  with  awe. 
We  then  passed  through  a  long  picture-gallery  into  a 
spacious  saloon,  where  my  conductor  stopped,  pointed 
to  a  half-open  door  at  the  farther  end,  and  left  me.  I 
stood  for  some  minutes  undecided  and  perplexed,  whe- 
ther to  advance  or  wait  where  I  was.  Low  rustling 
sounds  issued  from  the  door  to  which  my  attention  had 
been  directed.  I  advanced  on  tip-toe,  entered,  and 
found  myself  in  the  company  of  several  gentlemen  in 
glittering  uniforms  :    most  of  them  were  whispering  to 


148  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

one  another,  and  all  anxiously  looking  towards  a  door, 
which  I  concluded  led  into  the  king's  closet. 

At  my  entrance,  all  their  heads  turned  towards  me, 
with  looks  of  wonder  and  curiosity  ;  but  the  attention 
I  excited  proved  only  momentary,  and  they  resumed 
their  sotto  voce  conversations.  I  continued  to  stand  at 
the  door  in  the  extremest  confusion,  not  daring  to  put 
one  foot  before  the  other  ;  at  last,  when  I  thought  no 
one  observed  me,  I  ventured  to  an  open  window  to  cool 
my  burning  cheeks.  Here,  the  barking  of  dogs  in  the 
court-yard  brought  Fidelio  to  my  thoughts.  I  imag- 
ined the  possibility  of  his  escaping  from  the  stable. 
All  the  doors  through  which  I  had  passed  were  open  : 
I  imagined  him  following  me,  galloping  through  the 
apartments,  and  astounding  the  assembled  courtiers 
with  his  cries.  The  mere  idea  deprived  me  of  all  self- 
command,  and  my  fancy  going  on  beheld  him  rushing 
before  me  into  the  king's  presence — "  It  is  all  over 
with  rne,  now!"  I  exclaimed,  the  vividness  of  the  pic- 
ture betraying  me  into  my  inveterate  habit  of  solilo- 
quizing aloud.  All  eyes  immediately  turned  upon  me. 
The  echo  of  my  own  voice  still  rung  in  my  ears,  and  I 
was  covered  with  confusion.  In  this  predicament,  the 
doors  of  the  king's  closet  flew  open,  and  a  gentleman, 
all  covered  with  stars  and  embroidery,  came  out,  fol- 
lowed by  a  man  holding  a  white  wand,  who  called  me 
by  my  name.  I  obeyed  the  summons  mechanically, 
wiping  the  cold  dew  from  my  forehead  with  feelings 
far  more  like  those  of  a  culprit  led  to  the  gallows,  than 
of  the  heroic  advocate  of  oppressed  innocence.  In 
passing  the  door  by  which  1  had  entered,  I  could  not 
help  casting  a  glance  into  the  outward  room,  when — 
how  shall  I  find  words  to  express  my  horror  at  behold- 
ing Fidelio,  frisking  across  it,  with  his  usual  outrage- 
ous manifestations  of  happiness!  For  a  moment,  both 
sight  and  hearing  forsook  me.  My  first  impulse  was 
to  seize  the  beast  by  the  neck,  and  I  would  have  dash- 
ed him  out  of  the  window;  had  not  the  attendant  taken 
me  impatiently  by  the  arm,  and  pushed  me  into  the 
closet,  Fidelio  scampering  before  us. 

J  was  close  to  the  King,  but  only  a  tali  dark  form 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  149 

seemed  to  float  before  my  eyes.  I  saw  nothing  distinct- 
ly but  my  unlucky  dog,  with  his  snowy  coat  and  bright 
good-natured  eyes,  barking  his  pleasure  at  having  found 
me.  Not  content  with  this,  he  extended  his  caresses 
to  the  King,  who  repulsed  him  gently  with  his  hand. 
But  this  forbearance  only  deprived  me  of  mine.  Enra- 
ged at  the  dog's  presumption,  I  forgot  every  other  con- 
sideration, and  endeavoured  to  drive  him  out  of  the 
room. 

««TelI  me  your  business,  young  man,"  said  a  mild 
voice.  But  in  my  eagerness  to  lay  hold  of  the  culprit, 
I  made  no  reply. 

«<  Never  mind  the  dog,"  repeated  the  same  voice, 
which  I  was  now  sensible  was  the  King's,  ''and  tell 
your  business  quickly." 

While  he  spoke,  the  animal,  between  fright  and  play- 
fulness, had  jumped  on  a  table,  I  made  towards  him  ; 
but,  nimbler  than  I,  he  bounded,  first  over  one  chair,' 
and  then  over  another,  till  he  reached  the  royal  couch, 
where  he  nestled  among  the  cushions.  This  last  act  of 
insolence  and  disrespect,  on  the  part  of  a  poor  student's 
dog,  almost  bereaved  me  of  the  little  sense  I  had  left. 
I  snatched  the  beast  up  in  my  arms,  and  bore  him,  strug- 
gling for  liberty,  to  the  door,  where  I  flung  him  into 
the  next  room,  shutting  the  door  upon  hirn  with  violence 
— regardless  all  the  while  of  the  imperious  tone  in 
which  the  King  desired  me  to  *'  let  the  dog  alone." 

After  this  exploit,  I  returned  to  the  King,  trying  to 
collect  myself  sufficiently  to  state  my  case  ;  but  his 
INIajesty  had  rang  the  bell,  and  summoned  two  chamber- 
hussars,  who  seized  me  by  both  arms,  and  conducted 
me  through  the  whole  suite  of  apartments  down  the  mar- 
ble staircase,  and  through  the  gate  where  the  guard  was 
stationed  ;  leaving  me  in  the  open  street,  with  an  injunc- 
tion never  to  set  foot  in  the  palace  again.  I  know  not 
how  long  1  stood  in  consternation  unspeakable,  and  in- 
capable of  forming  any  distinct  idea  of  what  had  hap- 
pened to  me.  On  coming  to  myself,  I  had  but  one 
feeling — rage,  boundless,  unutterable!  Resolved  to  re- 
venge my  disgrace,  and  the  ruin  of  my  hopes,  upon 
Fidelio,  and  upon  who  ever  had  let  him  loose,  I  flew  to  the 

VOL.  IL — N  2 


150  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

inn,  for  I  had  looked  about  in  the  street,  and  not  seeing 
him,  I  concluded  that  he  had  run  home. 

''Where's  my  dog?"  I  demanded  furiously  on  enter- 
ing the  inn.  The  landlord  stared,  and  replied  that  he 
was  safe  in  the  stable  for  anything  he  knew  to  the  con- 
trary. 

''For  anything  you  know  to  the  contrary!"  said  I. 
"What  did  I  tell  you  ?  Did  I  not  charge  you  to  take 
care  he  did  not  get  out.      Such  infernal  negligence — '' 

*'  Softly,  softly,  young  gentleman,  I  am  not  used  to 
be  called  over  the  coals  thus  in  my  own  house.  I  tell 
you,  your  dog  is  in  the  stable,  where  you  put  him  your- 
self' 

'*lt  is  false,''  said  I,  ''the  dog  followed  me  to  the  pal- 
ace, and  here  I  am  disgraced — ruined — and  all  through 
your  carelessness." 

He  seemed  staggered  by  my  earnestness,  and  asked 
if  the  key  of  the  stable  was  still  in  my  pocket.  I  took 
it  out  and  gave  it  to  him.  "I  don't  understand  this," 
said  he,  "  there  is  no  second  key  to  that  door — so  unless 
the  dog  is  a  conjuror,  he  must  be  there  still.  Let  us  go 
and  look." 

We  found  the  stable  door  locked.  I  applied  the  key, 
and  kicked  open  the  door  with  my  foot,  when  Fidelio 
sprung,  barking,  off  a  heap  of  straw.  "See  there!"  ex- 
claimed the  host,  triumphantly  dragging  me  all  round 
the  stable,  to  convince  me  that  there  was  no  outlet  but 
the  legitimate  one. 

"Are  you  satisfied  now?"  said  he,  laughing  at  my 
discomfited  aspect.  I  could  scarcely  believe  my  sen- 
ses. "  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it,"  said  I,  at 
length, — "  I  surely  must  know  my  own  dog,  that  I 
have  reared  from  a  puppy;  and  I'll  swear  that  it  was  he, 
and  no  other,  that  disgraced  me  in  the  King's  presence." 
The  landlord  suddenly  burst  into  a  loud  fit  of  laughter. 
"Now  I  have  it!"  said  he.  "  Now  I  have  it!  Cap- 
ital! I'  faith.  The  dog  you  must  have  taken  for  yours 
is  the  King's  favourite  white  greyhound.  Now  that  I 
look  at  this  one,  I  see  that  they  are  as  like  one  another 
as  two  eggs." 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  151 

I  covered  my  face  with  my  hands,  and  groaned  aloud. 
Thus  had  the  King  taken  me  for  a  mad-man  ;  and  thus 
had  I  been  turned  ignominiously  into  the  street!  How 
could  it  have  been  otherwise  ? — for  who  but  a  maniac 
would  have  conducted  himself  as  I  had  done  ?  <<  What 
a  perverse  fate  is  mine  !"  I  exclaimed.  <^  Alas  !  poor 
mother,  every  prospect  for  comfort  in  thy  old  age  is 
blighted  ;  and  by  the  son  for  whom  thou  hast  toiled 
and  hungered  !  Where  are  now  the  bright  visions  of 
hope  which  cheered  me  by  the  way.  All  gone!  And 
here  am  I  branded  with  shame,  and  held  up  to  derision 
and  obloquy  for  ever!'^ 

I  threw  myself  on  a  bench,  and  wept  with  grief  and 
mortification.  The  inn  keeper  was  moved  by  my  dis- 
tress. He  drew  from  me  the  particulars  of  my  misad- 
venture, and  strove  to  comfort  me.  *'  Go  to  your  pa- 
tron, Count  A ,"  said  he,  "  and  tell  him  your  disaster. 

He  is  all-powerful  with  the  King,  and  may  repair  it.^' 

The  advice  was  good.  Only  the  minister  could  help 
me.  I  hastened  to  his  house.  He  was  not  at  home. 
I  went  again,  and  was  admitted.  His  brow  was  contract- 
ed, and  his  manner  grave. 

"Pray,  friend,  are  you  subject  to  paroxysms  of  in- 
sanity ?" 

<<No,  sir.  But  to-day — this  morning — my  unlucky 
star—" 

"  Unlucky  enough,"  said  he,  interrupting  my  hesitat- 
ing speech.  "I  am  sorry  for  you  ;  you  have  lost  your 
only  opportunity.  The  King  holds  you  for  a  madm.an, 
and  I  can  do  nothing  more  in  the  matter.-' 

I  could  have  blown  out  my  brains  for  vexation.  I, 
however,  suppressed  my  feelings,  and  related  my  un- 
fortunate mistake.  The  minister's  displeasure  gave  place 
to  a  hearty  laugh.  ''  You  may  congratulate  yourself  on 
your  mistake.  The  King  enjoys  all  that  is  droll  and 
original.  He  will  be  amused  by  any  explanation  of  the 
singular  proceeding  which  he  took  for  lunacy — and  you 
will  gain  your  cause.  Be  here  to-morrow  at  eleven, 
and  you  shall  go  with  me  to  the  palace." 

These  cheering   words   revived   my  hopes.     After 


152  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

some  laughing,  I  departed,  and  communicated  the  result 
of  his  advice  to  the  innkeeper.  I  waited  on  the  Count 
at  the  appointed  hour.  He  was  at  breakfast,  and  again 
received  me  with  the  utmost  kindness.  <'As  I  told 
you,''  said  he,  «^his  Majesty  was  greatly  entertained  by 
your  adventure.  It  is  his  pleasure  that  you  should  pre- 
sent j^ourself  to  him  this  morning  with  your  dog;  there 
is  no  time  to  be  lost — go." 

1  scarcely  waited  the  conclusion,  w^hen  I  started  off 
to  the  inn,  liberated  my  poor  Fidelio,  caressed  and  patted 
him  as  my  best  friend,  and  flew  to  the  palace.  I  was  ad- 
mitted as  on  the  preceding  day;  but  I  thought  I  perceiv- 
ed a  smile  on  the  countenance  of  my  conductors.  I  was 
agitated  on  entering  the  room  of  audience.  The  blood 
went  and  came  in  my  cheeks,  and  my  heart  beat.  The 
King  smiled  at  my  approach,  and  the  dog  which  I  had 
so  roughly  handled,  barked.  I  attempted  an  excuse 
for  my  yesterday's  behaviour;  but  the  King,  whose 
whole  attention  was  absorbed  in  the  comparison  of 
the  two  dogs,  replied  only  by  a  laugh.  '^  Truly," 
said  he,  "  they  might  easily  be  mistaken  for  one  another 
— they  must  be  of  the  same  breed,  though  I  did  not  be- 
lieve my  Caro  had  his  fellow  in  the  kingdom."  Then, 
turning  to  me,  with  a  more  serious  air  he  exclaimed, 

<' Count  A has  laid  your  case  before  me.     Justice 

is  clearly  on  your  side,  though  law  is  on  that  of  your 
adversary.  Nevertheless,  Damberg  shall  pay  the  debt 
due  to  your  mother.  The  Count  will  give  you  the  ne- 
cessary instructions." 

I  would  have  thrown  myself  at  the  Sovereign's  feet; 
but  he  waved  his  hand — the  door  was  opened,  and  I 
understood  that  I  was  dismissed.  Wild  with  joy,  I 
hastened  to  the  minister;  my  feet  seemed  scarcely  to 
touch  the  ground  as  I  went.  The  whole  sum,  with  the 
interest,  was  already  in  his  hands,  and  he  made  it  over 
to  me.  I  laughed — I  wept — in  short  I  was  beside  my- 
self with  delight,  that  my  mother  was  now,  and  through 
my  means,  beyond  all  fear  of  want! 

The  King  had  sent  for  Damberg,  and  threatened  him 
with  the  loss  of  his  favour,  if  he  persisted  in  his  refusal 
to   perform    this  act  of  justice.     The  appointment  of 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  153 

banker  to  the  Court  was  too  important  to  be  risked  for 
a  sum  comparatively  so  trifling,  and  the  money  was  im- 
mediately paid  to  Count  A . 

The  very  same  day  I  started  for  home;  not,  however, 
before  I  had  discharged  what  I  felt  to  be  a  precious  duty. 
I  purchased  the  most  beautiful  cut  glass  bowl  that  Dres- 
den could  produce,  and  despatched  it  by  the  diligence 
to  Annette,  the  pastor's  daughter  of  Wittenback,  ac- 
companied by  a  note  of  apology  for  Fidelio's  awkward- 
ness. I  took  post  horses,  in  order  to  give  my  dear 
mother  the  news  of  my  success  with  as  little  dela}^  as 
possible.  Her  joy  was  equal  to  mine.  In  a  fortnight 
I  was  settled  at  the  University.  I  was  diligent,  and 
three  years  glided  rapidly  away.  I  had  taken  my  de- 
gree, and  on  returning  home,  my  mother  presented  me 
with  a  letter  from  my  good  friend  Count  A ,  offer- 
ing me  the  situation  of  his  private  secretary.  I  accepted 
it  thankfully.  My  mother  removed  to  the  capital,  and 
after  a  short  apprenticeship  to  the  business  of  ojffice,  the 
minister  appointed  me  to  a  place  both  honourable  and 
lucrative. 

Finding  myself  independent,  I  walked  forth  one  fine 
day,  accompanied  only  by  Fidelio,  bending  my  steps 
towards  the  village  where  Annette  lived.  My  feelings 
grew  deeper  and  sweeter,  as  I  approached  the  gray  tower 
of  the  church,  and  the  vine-covered  parsonage.  The 
garden-gate  was  a-jar.  I  crept  gently  towards  the  sum- 
mer-house, but  Fidelio,  less  cautious,  rushed  on,  and  I 
heard  a  faint  scream  from  within.  I  quickened  my 
pace — entered — and  found  Annette  in  the  full  bloom 
and  beauty  of  womanhood.  Though  five  years  had 
elapsed  since  our  first  and  eventful  meeting,  she  instant- 
ly recognised  my  dog,  and  was  startled  by  its  sudden 
appearance.  She  was  pale  with  surprise;  but  m}^  en- 
trance soon  recalled  the  roses  into  her  cheeks.  In  a  few 
days  I  obtained  from  her  the  gratifying  avowal  that  she 
had  never  ceased  to  think  of  me,  and  had  rejected  seve- 
ral advantageous  matches  for  my  sake.  Her  father, 
who,  though  a  passionate,  was  not  an  ill-natured  man, 
willingly  accepted  me  for  a  son  in  law,  and  in  three 
months  Annette  and  I  were  married. 


154  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS  OF  GERMAN  LIFE. 

Fourteen  years  have  gone  by,  and  our  happiness  is 
still  undiminished.  My  mother  spends  her  time  in 
nursing  and  spoiling  my  children.  Fidelio  died  at  a 
good  old  age,  and  lies  under  a  yew  tree  in  my  garden; 
his  faithful  attachment  recorded  in  a  latin  epitaph  of  my 
son's  composition,  upon  a  white  marble  monument,  re- 
presenting  a  greyhound. 


THE 


xMAGIC    OF     TIME 


THE 


MAGIC    OF    TIME 


When  my  father  was  at  the  University,  he  contracted 
an  intimacy  with  a  young  man  of  great  talent,  named 
Waldern.  Their  studies  conckided  at  the  same  time  ; 
and  the  night  before  they  each  departed  to  their  respec- 
tive homes,  they  swore  eternal  friendship  over  a  bowl  of 
punch  ;  and  promised,  whatever  might  be  their  future 
destiny,  to  meet  once  every  year.  Many  similar  vows 
and  promises  have  been  made  under  similar  circumstan- 
ces,— but  sobriety  returns — the  enthusiasm  of  youth  is 
remembered  with  a  smile — times  are  changed,  and  minds 
shape  themselves  accordingly. 

Yet  it  was  not  thus  with  my  father  and  young  Wal- 
dern. They  were  faithful  to  their  vows.  Their  senses 
were  sobered,  but  their  hearts  retained  the  same  warmth 
as  in  youth.  Their  respective  paths  in  life  led  different 
ways,  but  their  souls  were  tuned  to  the  same  harmony  ; 
they  married,  and  though  settled  three  days'  journey 
from  one  another,  in  spite  of  all  the  affairs  connected 
with  their  employments  and  their  families,  not  a  year 
passed  without  their  visiting  one  another  for  two  or 
three  weeks.  At  first  these  visits  were  reciprocal  ;  but 
latterly,  it  was  my  father  only  who  left  his  home,  and 
availed  himself  of  his  friend's  hospitality.  I  know  not 
how  this  happened,  unless  it  was  that  Waldern  had  be- 
come rich  through  marriage  and  inheritance,  and  resid- 
ed in  the  capital,  where  he  occupied  a  distinguished 
Vol.  II.— 0 


158  LIGHTS   AND    SHADOWS 

office  in  the  law, — the  duties  of  which  might  have  pre- 
vented his  absenting  himself. 

On  the  other  hand,  my  father's  house,  in  the  village 
of ,  was  small,  and  ill  calculated  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  visitors  ;  but  it  was  the  residence  appointed 
for  the  director  of  the  woods  and  forests  of  the  province, 
a  post  which  my  father  held,  and  he  was  not  rich  enough 
to  provide  himself  with  a  better  at  his  own  expense  ; 
perhaps,  too,  he  might  like  the  variety  of  a  town  life, 
during  the  short  period  for  which  he  visited  his  friend. 
Be  it,  however,  as  it  may,  he  spent  some  weeks  of 
every  summer  with  the  President  Waldern,  at  Dresden. 

When  I  was  about  ten  years  old,  my  mother  sent  one 
day  for  the  tailor  to  make  me  a  complete  new  suit,  and  my 
father  said,  as  master  Snip  was  taking  my  measure, 
'^  Gustavus,  you  shall  go  with  us  this  time  to  Dresden 
—  my  friend  Waldern  has  long  wished  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  his  godson.^' 

Who  so  joyful  as  I  ?  My  mother  was  to  be  of  the 
party,  and  took  pleasure  in  telling  me  of  all  the  won- 
ders I  was  to  behold.  And  wonders  innumerable  did  I 
see — every  day  brought  some  new  delight  :  life  was  a 
fairy  tale.  The  counsellor  Waldern  was  a  very  amia- 
ble man,  but  he  had  a  daughter,  like  myself,  an  only 
child,  and  about  the  same  age,  who  appeared  to  me  more 
am.iable  still.  Augustine  skipped  and  danced  about  as 
soon  as  we  were  introduced  to  one  another,  and  invited 
me  to  go  and  see  her  new  doll!  Without  waiting  for 
an  answer,  she  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  dragged  me 
to  the  baby-house,  where  she  exhibited  the  rich  ward- 
robe of  the  doll — its  elegant  bed,  chairs,  sofas,  and 
tables. 

In  four  and  twenty  hours  I  had  supplanted  the  waxen 
favourite.  Augustine  played  with  my  sunny  ringlets, 
and  praised  my  blue  eyes — she  taught  me  to  dance,  and 
I  taught  her  the  manual  exercise  with  her  father's  cane. 
Unceasingly  occupied  with  play  or  prattle,  it  vv^as  with 
trouble  we  could  be  separated  when  the  unwelcome  hour 
arrived  for  going  to  bed. 

^^Hark  ye!  Wilhelm,"  said  the  Counsellor  one 
evening  to  my  father,  as  we  sat  at  our  supper  at  some 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  159 

distance  from  them.     ««You  never  saw  two   prettier 
children  than  ours." 

The  words  were  not,  perhaps,  intended  for  us  to  hear, 
but  they  were  spoken  in  one  of  the  intervals  when  our 
conversation  was  suspended  by  the  presence  of  a  large 
plate  of  bread  and  butter.  I  looked  at  Augustine,  and 
considered  for  the  first  time  whether  she  was  hand- 
some or  not;  and,  truly,  the  dark  tresses  circling  upon 
her  shoulders,  her  black,  sprightly  mischievous  eyes, 
her  coral  mouth,  and  regular  oval  face,  struck  me  as  de- 
serving her  father's  exclamation. 

««  Wilhelm,"  resumed  the  Counsellor,  ''  such  a  friend- 
ship as  ours  ought  to  be  transmitted  to  our  children's 
children — what  do  you  think  of  a  match  between  those 
two  ?     Do  they  not  seem  born  for  one  another  ?" 

My  father  nodded  and  smiled,  but  said  nothing, 
<«  Papa,"  cried  Augustine,  '^  do  you  mean  that  Gustav- 
us  shall  be  my  husband  ?  Oh,  that  will  be  delightful ! 
How  I  shall  love  him!  Won't  you  be  glad,  Gustavus?" 
This  sally  excited  a  general  laugh. 

The  next  day  we  played  at  matrimony.  The  mar- 
riage ceremony  was  performed  in  the  garden.  An  ar- 
bour, in  front  of  v/hich  stood  two  young  acacias  (at  that 
time  very  rare  plants  in  Germany),  was  the  church.  A 
rustic  table  was  the  altar,  and  a  cousin  of  Augustine's, 
somewhat  older  than  we  were,  but  who  often  joined  in 
our  sports,  the  priest. 

Augustine  had  provided  two  leaden  rings,  adorned 
with  red  and  green  glass  imitations  of  rubies  and  emer- 
alds, which  were  exchanged,  with  all  the  requisite  for- 
malities; and  being  too  large  for  our  diminutive  fingers, 
she  had  wound  ribbon  round  them  till  they  fitted. 

^«  You  must  give  me  a  kiss,  now,  Gustavus.  You  are 
a  very  rude  bridegroom  to  wait  till  I  asked  for  it,"  said 
Augustine,  bending  her  rosy  cheek  towards  me.  I 
blushed,  for  I  felt  shame  at  her  reproof.  However,  I 
kissed  her,  and  received  three  to  one  in  return. 

We  all  adjourned  to  a  banquet  of  almonds,  raisins, 
biscuits,  and  milk,  served  up  in  the  porcelain  service 
belonging  to  Augustine's  doll.  The  feast  over,  the  doll 
was  produced,  lying  in  a  cradle,  and  dressed  in  baby- 


160  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

clothes.  Augustine  was  wild  with  joy,  and  insisted  on 
teaching  me  to  nurse  our  first-born  in  a  becoming  pa- 
rental manner.  But  now  came  the  ball,  and  the  child 
was  left  to  cry  in  the  cradle — the  cousin  played  the  fid- 
dle, and  Augustine  and  I  waltzed  till  we  were  giddy. 

Three  weeks  passed  away  like  a  dream  ;  and  the 
hour  of  separation  cost  many  tears  to  the  new-married 
pair.  We  clung  to  one  another,  screamed,  cried,  and 
entreated  our  parents  not  to  part  us.  They  laughed  at 
our  heroics,  and  with  some  coaxing,  and  many  promises 
tliat  we  should  soon  meet  again,  I  was  taken  home. 

We  did  not  return  to  the  capital  so  sp-eedily  asl  wish- 
ed, or  as  my  parents  had  promised.  <'  How  stale,  flat, 
and  unprofitable"  did  home  appear  for  a  time!  what  tor- 
rents of  tears  did  I  shed  in  secret  for  my  beloved  Au- 
gustine! But  all  in  this  life  is  finite,  and  so  was  my 
despair — and  it  was  not  long  ere  I  was  reconciled  to  my 
peaceful  village,  and  the  surrounding  woods. 

In  due  course  of  time  my  father  deemed  it  expedient 
to  send  me  to  school,  and  I  was  accordingly  delivered 
over  to  the  care  of  an  old  friend  of  my  family,  who  was 
rector  of  the  high  school  in  a  neighbouring  town,  a  good 
and  learned  man,  who  consented  to  board  me  in  his  own 
house. 

My  kind  mother  wept  bitterly  at  parting  with  me, 
and  packed  my  trunk  with  her  own  hand,  taking  care 
to  cram  it  with  more  clothes,  linen,  and  sugar-plumbs 
than  would  have  sufficed  for  two. 

Though  I  had  dried  my  tears,  I  had  not  forgotten 
Augustine,  and  I  entreated  my  mother  to  put  up  the 
leaden  nuptial  ring.  The  relic  was  accordingly  envel- 
oped carefully  in  clean  white  paper,  and  laid  between 
two  shirts. 

I  did  not  take  much  to  learning  at  first ;  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  I  was  delighted  to  have  so  many  playfellows. 
However,  I  was  won  by  the  kindness  of  the  old  rector, 
who  treated  us  all  as  his  children  ;  and  after  a  while,  I 
multiplied,  divided,  declined,  and  conjugated,  to  his 
and  my  father's  satisfaction.  The  school  was  only 
three  German  miles  from  my  native  village,  so  that  I 
visited  my  parents  frequently.     What  a  treat  it  was  to 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  161 

spend  even  a  single  day  in  their  company!  My  dear- 
est mother!  my  good  benevolent  father!  with  what 
unspeakable  delight  did  I  always  return  to  the  spot 
which  your  love  had  made  a  paradise  to  me! 

The  rector  was  an  upright  man.  I  loved  and  vene- 
rated him  as  a  second  father;  his  learning  and  science 
made  me  regard  him  as  a  superior  being.  He  had  but 
little  intercourse  with  the  townspeople  ;  living  almost 
exclusively  with  his  pupils,  and  with  the  lofty  spirits 
of  Greece  and  Rome:  ''For,"  said  he,  '' in  the  ancients 
I  behold  excellence,  and  in  your  hearts,  my  children,  I 
discover  its  seeds.  Some  of  you  will  deceive  my  ex- 
pectations— yet  through  some  of  you  I  hope  still  to 
benefit  mankind,  when  I  shall  be  no  more." 

I  had  now  overcome  the  difficulties  of  Grammar,  and 
was  introduced  to  Homer,  Cicero,  and  more  than  these, 
to  Plutarch!  1  could  have  wept  for  the  gone-by  world! 
In  comparison  with  the  heroes  and  sages  of  antiquity, 
how  contemptible  were  the  men  of  modern  days!  I 
read,  I  translated,  I  declaimed,  and  made  verses  ;  and 
was  as  happy  as  knowledge  and  innocence  could  make 
me. 

My  father  continued  his  yearly  visits  to  his  friends 
in  the  capital,  but  Plato  and  Plutarch  had  completely 
supplanted  my  little  wife  ;  and  the  leaden  ring  had 
long  slept  neglected  and  forgotten,  in  company  with 
other  discarded  playthings,  which  my  mother  had  col- 
lected and  put  by,  in  a  box,  on  the  highest  shelf  of  her 
store-room.  My  vacations  were  spent  at  home,  or  in 
little  excursions  into  the  forest  and  mountains,  with 
some  of  my  school-fellows.  Thus  I  attained  my  nine^ 
teenth  year,  and  as  I  believed,  the  end  of  all  my  feli^ 
city  ;  for  the  rector  and  my  father  now  thought  it  de- 
sirable that  I  should  go  to  college.  I  could  not  part, 
without  grief,  from  the  venerable,  and  almost  paternal 
friend,  to  whose  affectionate  care  I  owed  so  much.  I 
was  still  more  miserable  at  the  idea  of  being  removed 
so  far  from  home.  As  the  hour  of  departure  approached, 
even  the  inanimate  objects,  which  I  had  loved  in  child- 
hood, became  every  moment  more  precious  to  me.  I 
visited  all  my  favourite  haunts,  and  took  leave  of  them 
VOL.  II. — o  2 


162  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

again  and  again.  On  the  last  day,  I  overhauled  all  my 
propert}^,  and  selected,  from  the  precious  depot  in  my 
mother's  store-room,  some  of  the  most  portable  articles, 
as  memorials  and  relics,  to  be  packed  up  with  the  splen- 
did morocco  Homer,  and  other  prize-books  which  I 
had  gained  at  school.  Augustine's  leaden  ring  was 
amongst  the  number. 

Though  I  made  verses  bad  and  indifferent,  in  which 
I  rung  interminable  changes  upon  love  and  moonlight, 
I  cannot  say  that  any  of  them  were  inspired  by  the  said 
ring,  or  by  the  remembrance  of  the  donor.  On  the 
contrary,  T  preferred  the  blue  and  black  eyes  of  many 
a  dame  and  damsel,  which  had  accidentally  glanced  upon 
me,  in  my  summer  evening,  or  Sunday  rambles.  To 
one  or  two  of  these,  I  had,  in  fear  and  trembling,  ad- 
dressed sonnets  in  imitation  of  Petrarch,  which  I  never 
had  the  courage  to  show.  But,  these  excepted,  my 
does  and  Lesbins  were  all  imaginary. 

At  the  University  I  devoted  myself  almost  exclusively 
to  the  study  of  pandects,  institutes  and  finance,  to 
gratify  my  father,  whose  ambition  was  to  see  me  occupy 
a  respectable  post  in  the  law,  connected  with  the  ad- 
ministration of  the  forests.  In  three  years,  therefore,  I 
made  such  rapid  progress,  that  I  took  my  degree  with 
honours,  and  many  of  my  friends  advised  me  to  try 
for  a  professorship.'  But  my  father,  who,  as  inspector 
of  forests,  thought  no  department  of  the  government  so 
honourable  as  his  own,  would  not  hear  of  any  change 
in  my  destination.  He  therefore  applied,  through  my 
godfather,  for  a  subordinate  situation  in  tlie  line  which 
he  had  chalked  out,  and  obtained  an  appointment  for 
me  in  a  provincial  town. 

My  studies  having  concluded,  and  my  appointment 
being  procured  just  about  the  time  of  my  parents'  annual 
visit  to  their  friend,  my  father  wrote,  desiring  that  I 
would  meet  them  at  Dresden,  as  Waldern  wished  to 
see  me  before  I  entered  upon  my  professional  duties. 

I  set  out  without  delay,  and  on  the  way  thought  fre- 
quently of  Augustine,  but  always  with  a  disagreeable 
recollection  of  our  childish  follies  ;  of  which,  at  one- 
and-tvventy,   I  felt  a  little  ashamed.      *^  She   must  be 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  163 

grown  considerably,"  thought  I  ;  "I  wonder  if  she  is 
handsome  now  !"  But  I  hated  the  idea  that,  possibly, 
our  parents  might  now  wish  to  unite  us  in  earnest.  I 
suspected  this  to  be  tlie  motive  of  summoning  me  to 
Dresden,  and  I  swore  it  should  never  be.  The  vow 
was  kept,  though,  as  it  will  be  seen,  sorely  against  my 
will. 

After  receiving  the  hearty  embrace  of  my  parents  and 
their  old  friends,  on  my  arrival  at  my  godfather's,  I 
perceived  that  there  was  another  person  in  the  room — 
a  lady,  young  and  beautiful  as  a  Hebe,  whose  black  ra- 
diant eyes  so  dazzled  and  confounded  me,  that  I  stood 
like  one  petrified,  and  incapable  of  making  any  return 
to  her  graceful  and  friendly  salutation.  I  wished  my- 
self a  thousand  miles  off  in  order  to  recover  my  confu- 
sion, and  yet  I  felt  as  if  it  would  be  death  to  lose  sight 
of  the  enchanting  vision. 

My  parents  fortunately  relieved  me,  in  some  degree, 
from  my  embarrassment,  by  reiterating  their  embraces 
and  congratulations,  to  which  I  was  compelled  to  reply. 

When  tranquillity  was  a  little  restored,  I  heard  my 
godfather  ask  the  beautiful  unknown  whether  supper 
was  ready  ? 

<*Can  this  be  Augustine?"  thought  I,  with  affright: 
<^  is  it  possible  that  I  should  ever  have  ventured  to  call 
this  heavenly  creature  my  little  wife? — It  were  profa- 
nation even  to  think  of  it!" 

Supper  being  announced,  Waldern  gave  his  arm  to 
my  mother,  my  father  conducted  his  friend's  wife,  and 
Augustine  was  left  to  my  charge.  I  offered  my  arm 
trembling.  It  would  have  been  more  to  the  purpose 
had  she  supported  me  with  hers,  for  I  was  hardly  able 
to  stand. 

^' How  you  are  grown  and  [altered!"  said  she;  <' I 
should  never  have  known  you,  had  we  met  elsewhere." 

^«I — I — wish,"  stammered  I,  <'that  I  were  a  little 
boy  again!"  My  tone  was  pathetic,  but  she  only  ex- 
pressed her  surprise  at  my  entertaining  such  a  wish. 

''  I  shall  never  again  be  so  happy  as  I  was  then," 
said  1,  while  the  sounds  almost  died  upon  my  lips, 
and  I  pressed  the  hand  which  rested  on  my  arm  ;  but 
Augustine  returned  no  answer. 


164  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

Supper  passed  off  cheerfully.  I  accustomed  myself 
to  the  sight  of  Augustine,  and  could  answer  rationally 
enough  whenever  her  discourse  was  addressed  to -me. 
But  still  I  forgot  to  eat ;  and  the  longer  I  looked  the 
more  heautiful  she  appeared.  The  next  day,  and  the 
next  again,  her  loveliness  went  on  increasing,  until  I 
was  completely  bewitched.  I  repented  the  vow  I  had 
made  on  the  road,  and  resolved  to  perjure  myself. 

On  the  third  evening  we  found  ourselves  by  some 
accident  alone  in  the  garden. 

I  had  been  long  wishing  to  say  something  to  her,  but 
I  did  not  quite  know  what. 

We  came  to  the  vine  arbour  : — well  did  I  remem- 
ber it!  ^*  How  tall  those  two  acacias  are  grown!" 
said  I ;  *^see  how  their  branches  are  interwoven  with 
one  another." 

"  Do  you  still  remember  those  trees,  then  ?"  said 
Augustine,  with  wonder. 

"Oh!  how  could  I  ever  forget  the  happy  moments 
with  which  they  are  associated  ?"  replied  I.  ^<  How 
often  have  I  been  here  in  thought,  whilst  you,  perhaps, 
have  as  often  sat  here,  without  once  recollecting  that 
such  a  being  as  Gustavus  ever  existed!" 

I  did  not  mean  to  be  insincere  ;  but,  at  that  moment, 
I  quite   forgot  that  she  had  ever  been  out  of  my  mind. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?"  said  she,  somewhat  con- 
fused, as  we  entered  the  arbour,  which  was  now  com- 
pletely shaded  by  the  luxuriant  branches  of  the  two 
acacias. 

As  1  cast  my  eyes  around,  every  object  recalled 
some  incident  connected  with  my  childish  passion.  I 
looked  at  Augustine,  and  my  eyes  must  have  betrayed 
my  feelings!  for  she  dropped  hers  on  the  ground,  and 
coloured.  I  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  <*This  was 
the  church!"  said  I. 

'<And  that  the  altar!"  said  she,  pointing  with  the 
disengaged  hand  to  the  rustic  table.  "  I  remember  it 
all/' 

*<Do  you  really  remember  all,  dearest  Augustine? 
All— all ?" 

Her  head  fell  upon  my  shoulder,  and  she  sighed  as 
she  uttered, 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  165 

<<0h,  Gustavus!" 

The  leaden  nuptial  ring;  was  in  my  waistcoat  pocket. 
I  took  it  out  and  showed  it  to  her. 

''Do  you   remember  this  too,  Augustine?"  said   I. 

A  blush  of  surprise  and  pleasure  animated  her  coun- 
tenance. She  examined  it  long,  and  gazing  at  me  for 
a  moment  with  glistening  eyes,  folded  me  in  her  em- 
brace, while  her  tears  wetted  my  cheek.  *'  Dear  Gusta- 
vus!'^  she  exclaimed,  "how  much  better  you  are 
than  I !" 

On  recovering  her  composure,  she  took  a  gold  ring 
from  her  finger,  and  placed  it  on  mine  ;  then,  putting 
the  leaden  one  on  her  own,  exclaimed  with  solemn  ear- 
nestness— ''This  memorial  of  thy  truth  and  constancy 
shall  go  with  me  to  my  grave.  I  am  thine,  Gustavus! 
and  thou  art  mine — for  ever  mine!  Is  it  not  so,  Gus- 
tavus ?'^ 

I  answered  this  tender  apostrophe  as  may  be  sup- 
posed, in  a  style  worthy  of  a  lover,  who,  having  written 
love-elegies,  odes,  and  sonnets,  for  the  last  six  years, 
at  length  met  with  a  real  living  divinity.  The  moon, 
the  stars,  and  all  the  heavenly  host  were  called  upon 
to  witness  our  vows  of  eternal  fidelity,  and  everlasting 
love  ;  but  it  is  needless  to  describe  the  scene  in  detail, 
since  every  one  knows  what  is  usual  on  such  occasions. 
Every  one  knows  how  Heaven  and  Earth,  Death, 
Time,  and  Eternity,  are  appealed  to.  I  will  only  say, 
that  three  months  flew  away,  like  a  summer's  dream  ; 
and,  when  my  father  talked  of  departure,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  had  but  just  come. 

I  could  not  help  being  surprised  at  the  unconcern 
manifested  by  our  parents.  They  must  have  seen  what 
was  passing  between  us,  since  there  was  no  attempt  on 
our  parts  to  conceal  it.  They  must  have  seen  our  eyes 
seeking  one  another — -our  hands  meeting,  as  by  mag- 
netic attraction,  every  time  we  approached  within  a 
yard  of  each  other.  The  sentimental  and  mystical 
tone  of  our  discourse  were  all  sufficient  to  prove,  to  the 
most  indifferent  observers,  that  what  was  play  ten  years 
ago  was  now  become  good  earnest  ;  and  yet  Waldern 
never  said  as  he  did  then — "  What  a  nice  match  Augus- 
tine and  Gustavus  would  make  !" 


166  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

I  was  a  more  timid  and  respectful  lover  now,  than  in 
my  childhood,  and  never  ventured  to  pronounce  the 
word  marriage.  It  seemed  to  me  <^flat  blasphemy"  to 
entertain  so  ethereal  a  creature  with  a  matter,  which 
although  too  prosaic  to  be  talked  of,  did,  in  reality, 
constantly  occupy  my  secret  thoughts. 

Meanwhile  the  hour  of  separation  arrived.  My  fa- 
ther had  postponed  it  three  successive  days  in  compli- 
ance with  our  entreaties  ;  but  at  the  end  of  that  time 
he  became  very  impatient.  The  morning  of  our  de- 
parture Augustine  and  I  met,  for  the  last  time,  in  the 
vine-arbour  before  sunrise.  We  wept,  embraced,  and 
wept  again.  The  arbour  once  more  became  a  church, 
and  its  rustic  table,  an  altar,  at  which  we  knelt  and  pro- 
mised eternal  love.  I  engaged  to  speak  to  my  father 
as  soon  as  I  reached  home,  and  having  obtained  his  con- 
sent, of  which  I  had  no  doubt,  to  come  back  and  make 
my  proposals  in  form  to  Augustine's  parents. 

We  parted,  and  I  was  scarcely  seated  under  my  pa- 
ternal roof,  when  I  opened  my  whole  heart  to  m}^ 
father.  This  was  the  more  eas}',  as  both  he  and  my 
mother  had  jested  about  Augustine  whenever  they  re- 
marked my  fits  of  melancholy  abstraction  on  the  jour- 
ney. My  father,  who  was  an  upright,  prudent  man, 
as  well  as  a  tender  parent,  gave  me  a  patient  hearing  ; 
and  much  need  of  patience  he  had  ;  for  the  flood-gates 
once  raised,  I  overwhelmed  him  for  the  space  of  two 
hours,  at  least,  with  the  history  of  my  inextinguishable 
passion.  Augustine's  unalterable  fidelity,  and  our  irre- 
vocable engagement. 

*' Well,  my  dear  child!"  said  he,  when  I  had  ended, 
^♦1  have  no  objection  to  miake.  On  the  contrar}^,  I 
commend  your  choice,  and  I  am  glad  you  are  in  love. 
The  remembrance  of  Augustine — of  a  virtuous  woman 
— will  be  a  safe-guard  in  many  a  disgraceful  temptation. 
Yet  I  advise  you  not  to  be  in  a  hurry.  You  are  scarce- 
ly one-and-twenty.  It  will  probably  be  some  years 
before  your  profession  will  yield  the  means  of  support- 
ing a  family.  Augustine  is  rich,  'tis  true  ;  but  I  trust 
you  have  too  much  spirit  to  sub.mit  to  be  maintained  in 
idleness  by  your  wife.     Nothing  is  more  humiliating 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  167 

than  such  dependence,  and  no  man  should  think  of 
marrying  who  cannot  maintain  his  wife  and  children, 
either  by  his  property  or  his  labour.  My  salary  as  in- 
spector, you  well  know,  is  so  limited,  that  I  shall  have 
but  little  to  give  or  bequeath  to  you.  You  must,  there- 
fore, earn  your  living  as  1  have  done.  Consider,  also, 
that  your  circumstances  may  be  an  objection  to  my 
friend  Waldern,  notwithstanding  his  regard  for  us  ;  for 
Augustine,  reared  in  the  lap  of  affluence,  has  hitherto  en- 
joyed conveniences  and  luxuries  that  habit  has  rendered 
necessaries,  and  which  you  are  far  from  being  able  to 
afford  her.  The  last  point  to  be  considered,  is  your 
youth.  Marriages  are  rarely  happy  where  there  is  not 
a  balance  of  a  few  years  on  the  husband's  side,  whilst 
you  are  several  months  her  junior." 

My  father  ceased.  In  my  apprehenison,  of  course, 
nothing  could  be  more  mistaken  than  his  views  ;  but, 
though  I  proved  them  so  to  my  own  satisfaction,  I  en- 
tirely failed  to  convince  him,  and  I  turned,  therefore,  in 
despair  to  my  mother. 

"  I  enter  into  your  feelings,  Gustavus,"  said  the  kind 
soul,  kissing  me  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  Augustine  is 
an  angel!  I  could  not  desire  a  better  daughter-in-law. 
But  your  father  is  in  the  right,  and  I  can  only  pray  God 
to  strengthen  you  under  your  trials." 

The  subject  was  discussed  every  day,  and  all  day  long, 
but  we  never  agreed  upon  it.  At  the  end  of  a  fortnight, 
just  as  I  was  preparing  to  set  out  for  Dresden,  on  my 
way  to  my  supernumerary  clerkship  at  Adorf,  there  came 
a  letter  to  my  father  from  his  friend,  in  which  he  de- 
scribed Augustine  as  having  been  inconsolable  for  my 
departure.  The  violence  of  her  agitation  had  occasioned 
a  fever,  which  confined  her  for  some  days  to  her  bed. 
She  was  now,  thank  God,  more  tranquil ;  but  he  conjured 
me,  as  I  valued  her  peace,  to  abstain  from  seeing  her 
again,  until  I  should  have  obtained  such  employment  as 
would  ensure  me  an  independence  ;  without  which,  he 
said,  it  would  be  inexcusable  in  me  to  think  of  marriage. 
He,  however,  desired  my  father  to  assure  me  that  he  had 
no  other  objection  to  our  union,  and  that  he  would  gladly 
give  his  consent  as  soon  as  I  should  be  in  possession  of  a 


168  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

competent  income,  which,  with  several  flattering  expres- 
sions regarding  my  character  and  talents,  he  said,  he  was 
persuaded,  would  be  in  a  very  i'ew  years.  As  some 
compensation  lor  the  pains  of  absence,  he  permitted  his 
daughter  to  correspond  with  me.  Notwithstanding  the 
tone  of  kindness  and  consideration  which  prevailed 
through  the  letter,  it  drove  me  stark  mad  for  four-and- 
twenty  hours.  I  raved  and  ranted  against  such  inhu- 
man and  tyrannical  abuse  of  parental  authority,  until  I 
had  not  strength  left  to  utter  another  syllable,  and  fell 
asleep  from  pure  exhaustion  of  mind  and  body.  I 
awoke  a  in  much  calmer  state,  and  discovered  by  degrees 
that  Waldern  had  written  sensibly  enough,  and  had  even 
conceded  more  than  my  parents  had  given  me  reason  to 
hope.  1  ceased  to  lament  my  fate,  resolving  to  rouse 
all  my  energies,  and  win  the  hand  of  Augustine  by  my 
own  merits.  I  profited,  without  delay,  by  Waldern's 
permission  to  write,  and  despatched  by  that  night's 
post,  six  folio  pages  of  present  misery  and  future  joys, 
to  my  Augustine,  and  half  as  many  overflowing  with 
gratitude,  to  her  father.  Waldern  was  a  sensible  man, 
who  knew  the  ways  of  the  human  heart,  and  knew  that 
to  attempt  to  stem  the  torrent  of  youthful  passion  is 
only  to  render  it  more  violent,  lasting  and  destructive. 

Instead,  then,  of  going  round  by  Dresden  to  my  des- 
tination, I  caught  a  glance  only  of  its  towers  from  a 
distant  hill,  as  I  pursued  my  way  without  stopping. 
The  parting  from  my  good  parents — the  journey,  and 
the  various  occupations  attending  on  my  establishment 
at  Adorf,  and  my  initiation  into  the  details  of  oflice,  all 
helped  to  bring  me  to  my  senses.  I  worked  with  un- 
wearied industry,  gathering  all  the  knowledge  that  fell  in 
my  way.  I  soon  gained  the  applause  and  good-will  of 
my  superiors.  But,  alas!  I  was  yet  too  young  for  pro- 
motion ! 

The  longed-for  day,  which  completed  my  first  five- 
and-tvventy  years'  experience  of  this  life,  arrived  at  last. 
But  how  little  do  we  know,  when  we  wish  the  present 
moment  gone,  what  the  future  may  bring  !  The  blest 
of  to-day  may  be  the  wretched  of  to-morrow  !  My 
incomparable  mother  was  carried  to  the  grave  on  my 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  169 

birth-day,  and  my  father  followed  her  in  the  course  of 
a  few  months  ;  but  not  without  the  satisraction  of  seeing 
me  raised  to  the  dignity  of  counsellor  of  the  woods  and 
forests.  The  salary,  it  is  true,  was  very  small,  but  I 
had  gained  the  first  important  step  towards  the  accom- 
plishment of  my  wishes. 

In  the  mean  time  my  correspondence  with  Augustine 
went  on  uninterruptedly,  with  one  difference,  however. 
The  first  year  our  letters  were  never  less  than  three 
pageSjdiagonally  andrectangularly  crossed  and  recrossed. 
The  second,  they  seldom  exceeded  two  ;  and  the  third, 
they  dwindled  down  to  one  only.  Time  effects  won- 
ders, but  it  cannot  extinguish  true  love.  Augustine 
had,  during  this  time,  declined  several  good  offers  ; 
and  my  letters,  lamenting  my  inability  to  join  the  ranks 
of  her  adorers  (my  salary  scarcely  sufficing  to  maintain 
the  exterior  of  a  gentleman),  were  answered  by  others, 
in  which  she  dwelt  on  the  increasing  anxiety  of  her  pa- 
rents at  seeing  her  still  unmarried,  whilst  she  approached 
the  age  when  lovers  begin  to  drop  off.  I  could  not  rea- 
sonably blame  this  anxiety  on  their  part  ;  yet,  at  the 
suggestion  of  Augustine,  and  in  defiance  of  mj'-  former 
resolutions,  I  wrote  to  Waldern,  intreating  his  consent 
to  our  marriage,  notwithstanding  my  inabilit}^  to  main- 
tain a  wife,  making  the  most  of  my  prospects  of  promo- 
tion, and  the  favour  of  my  superiors  in  office.  He  replied 
by  stating  the  same  grounds  of  objection  as  had  been 
advanced  both  by  himself  and  my  father  three  years 
before,  gently  hinting  that  my  fruitless  perseverance 
would  be  productive  of  unhappiness  to  Augustine.  I 
threw  down  the  letter  with  vexation,  and  walked  impa- 
tiently up  and  down  the  room.  But  as  my  first  feelings 
subsided,  I  could  not  but  acknowledge  that  the  man  was 
in  the  right,  and  was  even  generous  enough  to  confess  it 
to  Augustine,  in  a  letter  which  I  indited  that  very  even- 
ing. I  had  worked  myself  up  to  a  paroxysm  of  roman- 
tic self-denial  during  the  composition,  and  said,  that 
with  so  little  certainty  as  to  the  period  when  my  circum- 
stances would  allow  me  to  claim  her  hand,  I  could  not 
suffer  her  to  waste  her  youth  in  waiting  for  me — that  I 
should  never  cease  to  love  her,  although  she  became  the 
Vol.  IL— P 


170  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

wife  of  another — that  Aer  happiness  should  be  mine,  &c. 
&c.  &c. 

This  gave  rise  to  a  correspondence  of  several  months, 
in  which  we  tried  to  outdo  one  another  in  generosity. 
But  at  last  I  conquered,  or  rather  it  was  the  enchanter, 
Time.  For  Augustine  had  reached  hersix-and-twentieth 
year,  an  anxious  era  for  young  ladies  who  are  reluctant 
to  increase  the  holy  band  of  the  eleven  thousand  virgins, 
already  adorning  Paradise. 

I  was  surprised  one  day  by  a  letter  in  a  strange  hand. 
It  proved  to  be  from  a  Baron  Von  Winter,  expressing 
in  strong  terms  his  deep  gratitude  for  the  noble  sacrifice 
on  my  part,  through  which  he  had  become  the  happy 
husband  of  Augustine  Waldern,  and  begging  to  be  ad- 
mitted to  a  share  of  my  regard  for  his  amiable  partner, 
who  added  two  or  three  friendly  lines  in  her  own  hand, 
to  the  epistle  of  her  spouse.  I  read  the  letter  again  and 
again,  before  I  could  believe  my  eyes — and  then  cursed 
my  own  ill-advised  generosity,  and  the  inconstancy  of 
Augustine.  In  more  tranquil  moments  I  tried  to  justify 
her  conduct,  by  the  circumstances  of  her  advancing 
years,  and,  the  tedious  uncertainty  of  my  prospects  ;  but 
bitter  disappointment  still  rankled  at  my  heart.  It  was 
no  small  aggravation  of  these  feelings  to  hear,  in  less 
than  a  year,  that  Waldern  had  died,  leaving  his  daughter 
uncontrolled  mistress  of  all  his  fortune.  Had  she  but 
waited  one  twelvemonth  longer!  But  there  was  no 
use  in  repining.  I  wrote  to  her  no  more — and  she 
never  complained  of  my  silence. 

Partly  from  a  spirit  of  resentment,  and  a  wish  to  re- 
taliate— and  partly  to  divert  my  thoughts  from  their 
faithless  object,  I  suffered  my  eyes  to  wander  more  freely 
than  they  had  ever  done  before  among  the  daughters  of 
the  land.  JNIany  a  fair  flower  bloomed  around  me,  which 
it  would  have  been  sweet  to  pluck,  and  wear  next  my 
heart.  But  my  poverty  forbade,  and  I  was  condemned 
to  ''  pine  in  thought,"  till  better  times. 

At  last,  however,  fortune  began  to  smile.  I  was  re- 
moved to  abetter  situation  in  another  town,  where  I  liad 
much  more  to  do  ;  but  then  the  result  of  my  labours 
came  necessarily  under  the  observation  of  the  premier 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  171 

himself ;  and  my  extensive  knowledge  being  useful  to 
him,  he  employed  me  in  various  legal  arrangements,  in 
which  I  acquitted  myself  so  mucii  to  his  satisfaction, 
that  on  the  resignation  of  the  president  of  the  criminal 
courts  of  the  province,  I  was  appointed  to  succeed  him. 

My  new  situation  was  not  only  highly  honourable,  but 
lucrative  also.  I  set  up  a  handsome  establishment,  and 
soon  found  my  society  courted  by  the  most  distinguished 
families  of  the  countVy,  especially  such  as  had  grown- 
up daughters  to  dispose  of.  But  1  had  no  time  to  cast 
my  judicial  handkerchief,  for  I  w^as  obliged  to  go  to 
Dresden,  on  business  connected  with  my  post,  and  to 
be  presented  at  court. 

In  spite  of  the  pains  I  had  taken  to  forget  Augustine, 
the  thought  of  seeing  her  again  did  not  fail  to  awaken 
the  most  painful  emotions.  I  had  heard  her  spoken  of 
occasionally,  as  the  gayest  and  most  admired  of  the  court 
beauties,  and  surrounded  by  lovers  :  as  dissipated,  extra- 
vagant, and  fond  of  admiration — not  a  trace  of  the  plain 
burgher-like  manners  and  morals  of  the  Waldern  family 
being  how  discoverable  in  the  deity  of  the  Dresden  world 
of  fashion.  Her  husband,  the  Baron  Von  Winter,  was 
said  to  be  a  perfect  courtier,  of  an  easy  temper,  but 
much  older  than  Augustine,  and  broken  in  constitution. 

These  reports  always  gave  me  pain,  though  I  could 
not  bring  myself  to  credit  things  so  irreconcilable  with 
my  own  recollections  of  the  celestial  object  of  so  many 
years'  devotion. 

Arrived  at  Dresden,  the  minister  received  me  in  the 
most  flattering  manner,  and  presented  me  himself  to  the 
king,  who  farther  honoured  me  w^ith  the  order  of  the 
White  Eagle.  I  had  been  three  days  in  the  capital 
without  having  been  able  to  find  one  moment  even  to 
think  of  fulfilling  my  intention  of  visiting  the  Baroness 
Von  Winter,  when  I  received  a  note  from  her,  reproach- 
ing me  for  having  suffered  her  to  learn  my  arrival  from 
the  newspaper  instead  of  from  myself,  and  commanding 
me,  on  pain  of  her  displeasure,  to  join  her  supper-party 
that  evening.  There  was  a  tone  of  levity  in  this  invita- 
tion that  displeased  and  pained  me ;  it  was  unsuitable  to 
our  former  relationship.     I  had  anticipated  a  very  differ- 


172  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

ent  kind  of  meeting;  the  mere  thought  of  which  had,  by 
turns,  made  my  heart  sink  and  throb  within  me.  Our 
ten  years'  separation — the  various  events  that  had  oc- 
curred within  that  period  of  time — the  love  that  had  once 
bound  our  hearts — and  the  wrench  that  had  parted  them 
— all  concurred  to  make  me  dread  a  first  meeting.  I 
swallowed  three  or  four  tumblers  of  champaign  one  after 
another,  before  I  was  able  to  go  down  to  the  carriage 
which  was  waiting  to  convey  me  to  Augustine.  She 
occupied  the  house  formerly  inhabited  by  her  father. 
The  glare  of  the  lamps  exhibited  over  the  porte  co- 
chtrCy  the  baronial  coronet,  surmounting  a  proper  assem- 
blage of  lions  rampant  and  couchant,  carved  in  stone. 
The  vestibule  was  ornamented  and  Frenchified,  so  as  to 
have  lost  all  resemblance  to  its  former  sober  self  ;  and  I 
should  r.ave  been  at  a  loss  to  find  my  way,  but  for  two 
light-heeled  lacqueys,  in  elegant  gold  and  silver  liveries, 
who  skipped  up  the  broad  staircase  before  me,  and  threw 
open  the  folding  doors  of  a  saloon,  brilliantly  illumin- 
ated, and  filled  with  company. 

On  my  name  being  announced,  a  lady  advanced  to- 
wards me,  with  an  air  at  once  graceful  and  gracious.  It 
was  the  baroness,  but  not  the  Augustine  whose  portrait 
had  been  indelibly  engraved  on  my  heart.  The  per- 
son was  altogether  larger,  and,  though  the  features  were 
essentially  the  same,  yet  the  expression  was  quite  dif- 
ferent. The  beauty  of  the  form  now  before  me  was  of 
a  more  material  character;  the  complexion  less  transpa- 
rent, and  the  eyes  less  soft — their  brightness  was  ua- 
dimmed  it  is  true,  but  they  seemed  to  demand  instead 
of  inviting  homage.  I  was  so  overpowered  by  my  agi- 
tation, that  1  could  only  stammer  out  one  or  two  unin- 
telligible words.  On  subsequently  retracing  the  scene 
in  my  mind,  I  fancied  that  on  first  addressing  me, 
Augustine's  cheek  wore  a  deeper  glow  than  I  remark- 
ed on  it  afterwards;  but  if  so,  it  was  the  only  visible  sign 
of  embarrassment  on  her  part.  I  was  restored  to  some 
degree  of  composure  by  the  perfect  ease  of  her  manners. 
She  reproached  me  in  a  tone  of  playful  kindness,  for 
having  been  so  long  a  stranger  ;  and,  taking  my  arm,  pa- 
raded me  through  the  rooms,  presenting  me  as  we  pass- 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  173 

ed  to  her  innumerable  <<  select  friends,'^  as  an  old  com- 
panion and  playfellow  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  ten 
years.  I  soon  recovered  myself,  in  the  gay  confusion 
of  music,  dancing,  cards,  and  conversation.  Augustine 
was  called  away  from  me  to  do  thehonoursof  her  house 
to  the  fresh  guests  who  were  dropping  in  from  the 
opera.  I  could  not  but  admire  the  grace  with  which  she 
acquitted  herself.  She  seemed  to  say  to  every  one  just 
what  it  was  most  agreeable  to  them  to  hear.  As  we  met 
again  in  the  crowd,  she  asked  me  how  long  I  purposed 
to  remain  at  Dresden,  and  gave  me  a  general  invitation 
to  her  house.  <'  I  appoint  you  my  cavalier  servente,^^ 
said  she,  ^'  and  require  you  to  be  in  daily  attendance." 

She  was  glidmg  on,  when  I  asked  to  be  presented  to 
the  Baron  Von  Winter. 

^^ Mon  BieuP^  replied  she,  "How  can  I  tell  where 
he  may  be  at  this  moment.  I  heard  something  about 
his  dining  at  the  Prince  Royal's  villa— rt;?rojyo5,  Presi- 
dent, are  you  married  ?"  Without  waiting  for  the  an- 
swer, which  I  could  not  for  my  life  have  uttered  at  that 
moment,  all  her  attention  seemed  to  be  absorbed  by  a 
young  man,  who  asked  her  opinion  of  the  new  singer. 
The  night  wore  on — hopeless  of  farther  conversation 
with  her,  I  departed. 

The  following  evening  the  Baron  appeared  in  his 
wife's  drawing-room.  He  was  a  pale,  emaciated  man 
of  about  fifty  ;  but  the  fashionable  cut  of  his  coat,  and 
the  perfumed  curls  of  his  wig,  a  PAntinous,  proved  that 
he  had  not  relinquished  his  pretensions  to  youth  and 
good  looks.  Augustine  having  caught  my  eyes  fixed 
upon  him,  perhaps  with  an  expression  of  surprise  at  her 
choice,  said,  in  a  half-whisper  as  she  passed  close  by  me 
— '^Iln'estpas  beau — mais,  pourtant,  c'est  ce  qui  me 
convient."  For,  in  her  new  character,  she  had  also 
adopted  the  fashionable  foppery  of  speaking  French,  in 
preference  to  her  native  language. 

The  dissipated  tone  of  the  Baroness's  society  displeas- 
ed me  ;  and,  only  my  affection  for  her,  could  have  in- 
duced me  to  frequent  it  as  I  did  :  which  was  as  much  as 
my  official  business  permitted.  Besides,  though  1  could 
not  approve  Augustine,  her  beauty,  wit,  and  playfulness, 
VOL.  II. — p  2 


174  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

fascinated  and  attracted  me,  as  often  as  my  old  remi- 
niscences, and  the  comparison  of  her  former  with  her 
present  self,  would  have  estranged  me.  I  felt  that  even 
now,  she  might  again  endanger  my  peace,  in  spite  of  her 
inconstancy  and  worldliness. 

^'  But,  tell  me,  Baroness,  are  you  really  happy  ?"  said 
I  to  her,  one  night  at  the  Opera,  when  we  found  our- 
selves, for  the  first  time,  tete-a-tete. 

*^  What  do  you  mean  by  happy  ?''  returned  she,  while 
she  smiled,  and  shook  her  fan  at  some  one  in  an  oppo- 
site box. 

'^  1  mean,"  replied  I,  taking  her  hand  and  pressing  it 
affectionately — '<!  mean  such  happiness  as  we  once 
dreamt  of  enjoying  together.     *^re  you  happy  ?" 

"  Why,  do  you  doubt  it,  President  ?" 

"  Then  I  am  happy  too,  dearest  Augustine  !  that  is — 
if  your  are  sincere  !"  I  added,  hesitatingly.  Sheavoid- 
ed  my  inquiring  looks  by  bending  down  her  head  to 
adjust  the  diamond  bracelet  upon  an  arm,  still  unequalled 
for  whiteness  and  symmetry. 

''  Sincere  ! — Is  it  possible.  President,  that  you  should 
still  be  as  great  an  enthusiast  as  you  were  ten  years 
ago  ?  I  thought  you  wiser  ;  but  your  romance  becomes 
you  still.  Pray  recollect,  however,  that  an  opera-box 
is  not  the  most  appropriate  place  for  such  confessions 
as  you  would  extort  from  me.  To  answer  you  satis- 
factorily, our  tete-a-tete  mxisih^lGSS  liable  to  interrup- 
tion.    Come  and  breakfast  with  me  to-morrow." 

I  had  scarcely  assented  to  her  invitation  when  a  gen- 
tleman, whom  1  had  seen  at  her  house,  entered  the  box, 
and  was  followed  by  a  succession  of  visitors.  I  fixed 
my  eyes  on  the  stage,  but  the  melodious  warblings  of 
Tancredi  fell  on  a  lifeless  ear.  I  only  awoke  from  my 
reverie  on  being  touched  on  the  arm  by  Augustine's  fan, 
v^^hen  she  was  ready  to  depart. 

From  the  theatre  I  attended  her  to  a  ball  ;  where  I 
left  her,  at  a  late  hour,  waltzing  with  a  foreign  prince, 
and,  to  all  appearance,  as  little  concerned  about  me,  as 
if  we  had  never  met  before  in  our  lives. 

I  presented  myself  the  next  morning  at  Augustine's 
door,  a  slip-shod y>'o//ew/'  having  informed  me  that  her 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  175 

excellency  was  not  awake,  I  looked  at  my  watch  and 
found  it  was  not  nine  o'clock.  I  strolled  round  the 
park,  skimmed  the  newspapers  in  a  cajft,  and  walked 
about  the  town  for  near  two  hours,  when  I  returned, 
and  was  admitted. 

I  was  agreeably  surprised  to  find  her  simply  attired  in 
a  white  morning  dress.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen 
herunincumbered  with  the  brilliant  paraphernalia  of  rank 
and  riches,  and  for  the  first  time  I  thouglit  she  looked 
like  7723/  Augustine.  ''You  are  come  to  receive  my 
confession,  then,  President?"  said  she,  extending  her 
hand  with  a  smile,  which  renewed  the  fascination  of  the 
preceding  night;  and,  desiring  me  to  seat  myself  beside 
heron  the  sofa,  I  learned,  that,  when  young  ladies  awake 
from  the  dreams  of  romance,  they  rest  their  happiness  on 
moresubstantialand  tangible  things;— that  the  old-fashion- 
ed prejudices  imbibed  in  the  nursery  make  themselves 
wings  and  fly  away,  when  the  eyes  of  the  understanding 
are  opened  to  their  absurdity  ;  and,  lastly,  that  she  was 
well  satisfied  with  her  husband,  because  he  suffered  her 
to  follow  her  own  devices  unmolested,  with  the  tacit 
understanding  that  she  should  interfere  as  little  with  his. 
She  farther  confessed,  that  she  did  not  love  the  Baron 
as  well  as  she  had  loved  me  ;  ''  But,  then,"  added  she, 
with  a  look  of  malicious  meaning,  "he  is  better  calculat- 
ed for  a  husband  than  you  are,  though  you  may  have 
been  the  most  agreeable  lover." 

I  defended  myself  warmly  on  this  point,  but  she 
turned  all  my  arguments  into  jest  ;  and  breakfast  being 
announced,  we  proceeded  towards  the  well-remember- 
ed garden — the  scene  of  our  parting  ten  years  before. 
But  the  well-remembered  garden  proved  to  be  as  much 
changed  as  all  the  rest.  The  parterres  had  vanished,  and 
in  their  place  w^ere  clumps  of  young  trees  and  shrub- 
beries, intermixed  with  green  sward  and  winding  gravel 
walks,  after  the  fashion  of  what  the  French  have  term- 
ed Jardins  Anglois,  The  vine-arbour  was  transformed 
into  a  Chinese  pagoda,  over  the  bells  of  which  waved 
the  branches  of  the  two  old  acacias.  The  interior  was 
fitted  up  3iS  3i  boudoi?^  in  the  newest  and  most  expensive 
Parisian  taste.     A  pink  satin  sofa,  and  a  rich  buhl  table 


176  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

covered  with  coffee  and  chocolate,  and  all  thee^  ceteras 
of  a  luxurious  breakfast,  served  in  sevres  and  chased 
silver,  filled  the  place  of  the  rustic  bench  and  table  of 
other  (and  to  me  at  least),  happier  days. 

<*  Oh,  where  is  our  beautiful  vine-arbour — our  church 
— our  altar,  and  the  happy  days  of  our  childhood  ? — 
All  gone  !"  said  I,  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  a  look  which, 
probably,  conveyed  a  melancholy  reproach  to  Augustine. 

^^Does  happiness  depend  on  a  vine-arbour,  then?" 
she  replied,  laughing.  <^I  almost  think  the  reason  you 
don't  love  me  as  well  now  as  you  did  ten  years  ago,  is, 
that  I  wear  a  different  gown." 

'^  But,  Augustine/'  said  I,  ^<  for  here  I  feel  a  right 
once  more  to  call  you  so,  have  you  no  regard  for  the 
memorials  of  any  of  those  passing  moments  of  life  which 
are  worth  all  the  rest  ?  Look  at  this  little  gold  ring, 
the  only  relic  of  my  past  happiness,  and  which  I  have 
never  taken  off  since  you  put  it  on  my  finger,  ten  years 
ago,  where  we  are  now  sitting." 

''Well,  and  pray  what  do  you  say  to  this  leaden  one, 
which  I  wear  in  honour  of  you — during  breakfast,  at 
least" — said  Augustine,  holding  her  hand  close  to  my 
eyes.  "  Look!  how  black  it  is  become,  though  it  lodges 
in  a  corner  of  my  jewel  case." 

At  the  sight  of  the  ring  a  mixed  feeling  of  bitterness 
and  satisfaction  overcame  me.  I  seized  the  beautiful 
hand  and  devoured  it  with  kisses.  Augustine  drew  it 
back  hastily.  '*  You  are  still  the  same  impassioned  en- 
thusiast, Gustavus  ; — you  are  bad  company  for  me." 

Neither  of  us  had  much  appetite  for  breakfast.  Au- 
gustine was  absent,  and  thoughtful — at  last  she  started  up, 
and  urged  me  with  sportive  earnestness,  to  leave  the 
pagoda.  '<  President  !  President  !"  said  she,  holding 
up  her  finger,  with  a  threatening  gesture,  "  I  must  take 
care  how  I  again  Consent  to  make  you  my  father  con- 
fessor." 

She  laughed  and  jested  all  the  way  across  the  garden 
to  the  house  ;  where,  after  receiving  her  orders  to  attend 
her  in  the  evening  to  the  court  ball,  I  took  my  leave. 

Though  I  remained  a  fortnight  longer  at  Dresden,  I 
never  had  another  opportunity  of  seeing  Augustine  alone 


or  GERMAN  LIFE.  177 

— perhaps,  because  I  avoided  it;  for  though  the  last  spark 
of  my  former  reverential  love  expired  on  the  threshold 
of  the  pagoda,  I  could  not  conceal  from  myself  that  her 
society  was  more  dangerous  to  my  peace  (though  in  a  dif- 
ferent way)  than  ever  it  had  been  before. 

At  length  the  day  of  my  departure  came.  How  differ- 
ent was  that  separation  from  the  last  !  Our  adieus  were 
drowned  by  the  crash  of  an  orchestra,  and  the  "  squeak 
and  gibber''  of  a  multitude  of  masquers  at  the  ridotta, 
after  we  had  been  waltzing  together  the  last  night  of  the 
carnival.  She  accompanied  me  to  the  door  of  the  ball 
room,  and  saluting  me  with  a  last  and  smiling  *^  adieu, 
mon  ami  V  she  gave  her  hand  to  a  fresh  partner,  and 
plunged  again  amidst  the  brilliant  crowd. 

I  had  run  my  time  to  the  latest  moment ;  so  exchang- 
ing my  domino  for  a  travelling  cloak,  I  stepped  from 
the  theatre  into  my  carriage,  which  was  waiting  for  me, 
ready  packed,  at  the  end  of  the  street. 

I  rejoiced  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  at  being  once 
more  my  own  master,  and  at  having  escaped  from  the 
wearisome  tumult  of  what  is  miscalled  ihe  great  world. 
To  call  it  the  gai/  world,  seems  no  less  a  misnomer,  for 
nothing  makes  me  so  melancholy. 

Stretched  in  my  dormeuse,  I  traversed  forests,  moors, 
towns,  and  villages,  revolving  the  future,  for  Augustine 
had  sickened  me  of  the  past.  Such  are  the  transmuta- 
tions of  Time  ! 

My  journey, — two  days  were  requisite  to  convey  me 
to  Chemnitz — would  have  been  tiresome,  had  I  lacked 
adventures,  but  a  very  agreeable  one  occurred  on  the  last 
day.  I  stopped  to  change  horses  at  a  little  village,  and 
went  into  the  inn,  where  the  host  was  disputing  with  a 
rude,  half  drunk  voiturier.  A  very  young,  well  dress- 
ed lady,  in  travelling  costume,  sat,  with  a  countenance 
of  timid  anxiety,  on  a  bench.  The  altercation  appeared 
to  have  arisen  from  the  voiturier's  refusing  to  fulfil  his 
agreement  of  conveying  her,  as  expeditiously  as  possible, 
to  a  certain  place,  contending  that  the  bargain  had  been 
made  with  an  understanding  that  he  was  to  go  to  a  town 
several  miles  out  of  the  way,  to  take  up  some  other  trav- 
ellers.    The  host  had  taken  the  part  of  the  distressed 


178  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

damsel,  but  there  was  no  making  her  intoxicated  con- 
ductor listen  to  reason.  Finding  on  inquiry,  that  she 
was  the  daughter  of  the  pastor  of  a  village  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Chemnitz,  where  I  was  going,  and  but  half 
a  mile  out  of  the  road,  I  soon  settled  the  question.  I 
told  her  who  I  was,  and,  after  a  short  hesitation,  my  of- 
fers were  accepted. 

At  first  my  companion  was  rather  shy,  replying  in 
monosyllables  only  to  my  attempts  at  conversation. 
But  we  were  gradually  jumbled  into  better  acquaintance, 
and  we  chatted  cheerfully  on  the  various  subjects  which 
the  objects  on  the  road  suggested.  I  had  never  heard 
a  voice  more  soft  and  musical,  while  the  pure,  benignant 
expression  of  her  mild  blue  eyes  was  worthy  of  a  Ma- 
donna. I  learned  that  her  name  was  Adele  Blumenbach, 
and  that  her  brother  had  accompanied  her  a  fortnight 
before  to  visit  their  uncle,  who  was  burgomaster  of  a  lit- 
tle town,  twelve  miles  from  thv?  inn  where  I  met  her. 
Her  brother  having  been  unexpectedly  called  away  to 
a  different  part  of  the  country,  a  return  voiturier  was 
engaged  by  the  burgomaster,  to  convey  her  back  to 
Bergsdorf.  Thus  I  had  to  thank  the  blundering  of 
the  uncle,  or  the  knavery  of  the  voiturier,  for  a  most 
agreeable  morning. 

When  we  arrived  at  Bergsdorf,  the  pastor  was  walk- 
ing before  his  door.  How  I  envied  Adelaide's  father, 
when  1  saw  her  in  her  own  natural  character,  all  re- 
serve thrown  aside,  spring  into  the  old  man's  arms 
with  affectionate  and  childish  delight!  I  was  sorry 
not  to  be  able  to  accept  the  pastor's  invitation  to  stay 
the  night ;  however,  I  promised  totake  an  early  oppor- 
tunity of  visiting  him,  as  the  village  was  but  a  short 
ride  from  my  residence.  But  the  promise  was  forgot- 
ten amidst  the  distractions  of  business  and  society. 

About  half  a  year  after  this — I  now  number  one-and- 
thirty  years — an  age  when  bachelors,  who  are  *' marry- 
ing men,"  begin  to  look  at  the  daughters  of  Eve  with 
more  serious  and  anxious  feelings, — 1  observed  amongst 
the  dancers  at  a  ball,  a  girl,  who  bore  away  the  palm 
of  beauty  from  all  the  rest.  Her  evident  unconscious- 
ness of  the  admiration  she  attracted,  was  not  her  least 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  179 

perfection.  All  the  young  men  were  fluttering  about 
her  like  butterflies  about  a  new  blown  rose.  My  heart 
glowed  every  time  her  eyes  turned  on  me,  which,  to 
my  surprise,  happened  very  often. 

It  now  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  I  must  have 
seen  her  before.  Perhaps  I  had  met  her  at  Dresden. 
I  inquired  of  a  man  near  me,  whose  attention  seemed 
as  much  rivetted  as  mine,  and  discovered  that  the  ob- 
ject of  our  admiration  was  my  quondam  travelling 
companion  Adelaide  Blumenbach.  Resolved  to  renew 
our  acquaintance,  1  watched  an  interval  of  the  dance, 
and  joining  the  crowd  of  young  men  who  hovered 
about  her,  I  was  not  a  little  flattered  to  find  that  she 
had  recollected  me  at  first  sight.  We  danced — I  in- 
quired about  her  father's  health,  and  lamented  that 
business  had  prevented  my  visiting  Bergsdorf — for  I 
could  not  endure  to  be  thought  indifferent  to  such  an 
angel!  I  repeated  my  wish  of  visiting  the  pastor,  to 
which  she  replied  with  the  utmost  cordiality  and  open- 
ness, that  her  father  would  be  delighted  to  see  me  again. 

The  ball  completely  revolutionized  me.  The  presi- 
dent of  the  criminal  court  again  became  a  poet.  I 
never  closed  my  eyes  all  night — I  saw  nothing  but 
Elysium  and  dancing  spirits,  every  one  of  whom  dis- 
played Adelaide's  features.  I  only  wondered  how 
such  a  girl  could  have  remained  so  long  unmarried. 
Her  father  was  said  to  be  as  good  as  his  daughter  was 
beautiful — but,  alas!  he  had  no  fortune  to  give  her — 
Idiots! 

The  first  moment  of  leisure  I  mounted  my  horse, 
and  galloped  to  Bergsdorf.  The  visit  was  repeated 
once  a  week  till  I  was  installed  as  I'ami  de  la  maison, 
and  Adelaide  scolded,  when  through  any  accident,  I 
missed  the  appointed  day.  Tears  once  filled  her  eyes, 
on  my  replying  to  her  reproaches,  that  it  would  per- 
haps be  better  if  I  did  not  come  so  frequentl}^  We 
then  got  on  to  quarrelling  and  making  up  again.  In 
one  of  those  reconciliations  I  hazarded  a  kiss,  and  was 
not  repulsed — her  cheeks  only  glowed,  her  eyes  sunk 
to  the  ground,  and  she  was  silent.  In  short — I  loved, 
and  was  beloved.     The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoul- 


180  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

ders,  and  said,  ^'Friend,  my  daughter's  only  dowry  is 
love,  virtue,  and  frugality  ;  but  he  who  can  estimate 
these,  is  richer  than  if  he  was  master  of  Peru." 

When  the  first  snow  drop  appeared,  the  old  man 
gave  us  his  paternal  blessing  in  the  village  church. 
And  now,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  knew  what  it 
was  to  be  rationally  happy.  In  due  course  of  time  we 
were  surrounded  with  blooming  children,  every  one  of 
which  seemed  to  unite  us  more  closely  than  before. 
The  pure,  exalted  character  of  Adelaide  ennobled 
mine.  A  man  cannot  be  perfectly  happy  until  he  has 
the  courage  to  be  virtuous.  Before  our  marriage,  I 
was  anxiously  forming  plans  to  save  and  accumulate 
property  for  my  future  family  ;  but  by  the  time  I  had 
been  married  ten  years,  I  felt  that  in  the  home  of  my 
affections  1  could  have  borne  the  loss  of  all,  but  the 
means  of  existence,  with  cheerfulness. 

I  now  discovered  and  acknowledged,  that  my  father 
had  been  right  in  wishing  to  detach  me  from  Augus- 
tine. I  felt  the  truth  of  his  argument  relative  to  our 
equality  of  ages.  For,  now  that  I  had  entered  my 
fortieth,  and  my  wife  her  thirtieth  year,  and  that  our 
children  were  sporting  about  us,  Adelaide  was  still  a 
beautiful  young  woman,  while  Augustine  must  already 
be  a  respectable  matron.  I  heard  but  seldom  of  the 
latter,  for  as  it  may  be  supposed,  we  did  not  corres- 
pond. Report  described  her  as  already  in  the  list 
of  the  ci-devants,  yet  retaining  a  numerous  suite  of 
young  men,  for  the  most  part  poets  and  literati,  who 
duly  appreciated  the  excellence  of  her  table,  and  the 
advantages  of  an  introduction  to  the  world  of  fashion, 
under  the  auspices  of  one  of  its  brightest  luminaries. 

Happening  to  be  summoned  on  professional  business 
to  Dresden,  I  received  a  long  letter  from  Augustine, 
informing  me  of  her  husband's  death,  and  entreating 
me,  for  the  sake  of  our  former  friendship,  to  assist  her 
in  a  law-suit  with  the  Baron  Von  Winter's  family. 

1  could  not  apprehend  the  same  danger  from  such  a 
meeting,  as  ten  years  before  ;  I  therefore  went  to  see 
her,  this  time,  on  the  second  day  after  my  arrival,  with- 
out so  much  as  one  extra  throb  of  my  heart.     I  had 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  181 

previously  sent  to  let  her  know  that  I  was  coming  to 
discuss  the  affair  of  the  law-suit,  as  I  was  told  by  one 
of  her  friends,  that  she  was  constantly  engaged,  either 
in  playing  the  mecsenas,  or  at  the  card-table  ;  play 
having  of  late  become  her  ruling  passion. 

It  was  a  lovely  summer's  evening,  when  I  walked 
from  my  hotel  to  Augustine's.  The  servant  said  his 
mistress  was  with  company  in  the  garden.  I  followed 
him  to  the  Chinese  pagoda.  I  felt  rather  comical  at 
the  recollection  of  the  two  last  scenes  in  this  spot,  of 
which  I  had  been  the  hero. 

On  entering  the  temple,  I  found  several  persons  as- 
sembled round  a  faro-table,  so  absorbed  in  their  devo- 
tions, that  nobody  perceived  my  approach.  I  recog- 
nized Augustine;  but,  oh!  how  changed! — how  wi- 
thered! All-powerful  time!  how  roughly  hadst  thou 
laid  thy  destroying  hand  upon  her !  No,  truly,  danger 
there  was  none,  in  approaching  such  a  painted  sepul- 
chre! 

On  hearing  my  name  announced  by  the  servant,  the 
Baroness  looked  up,  nodded  her  head,  and  begged  me 
to  wait  a  moment  till  the  deal  was  over.  She  then 
arose,  overwhelmed  me  with  civilities,  called  for  ices, 
and  invited  me  to  join  the  party.  I  declined,  on  the 
plea  of  being  unacquainted  with  the  game. 

*'Good  gracious!''  she  exclaimed,  "how,  then,  do 
you  kill  time,  if  you  don't  play  ?" 

She  doubled  her  stake.  The  banker  had  an  extraor- 
dinary run  of  luck.  All  the  gold  of  the  company  was 
soon  heaped  before  him.  It  was  a  fearful  sight,  to  see 
the  inflamed,  eager  eyes,  and  the  compressed  lips,  of 
the  losers  ;  while  the  winner  had  scarcely  the  good 
manners  to  suppress  his  joy. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  I  have  cleaned  you  all  out!"  said  he, 
in  his  gambler's  slang,  and  exhibiting  a  magnificent 
diamond  ring — <^  You  were  admiring  my  solitaire  just 
now,  suppose  you  all  stake  your  rings  against  it  ?" 

The  covetous  and  vindictive  glances  of  the  players 

were  instantly  rivetted  on  the  sparkling  treasure.     "I 

have  no  rings  on  to-day,"  said  the  Baroness  ;   ^^  I  must 

send  for  one."     In  that  moment  she  looked  at  me,  and 

Vol  II.— Q 


1S2  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

continued — '*  President,  perhaps  you  will  save  rne  trou- 
ble, and  lend  me  yours  for  the  present  ;  I  will  redeem 
and  restore  it  to  you  when  we  go  in  to  supper." 

It  so  happened,  that,  from  long  habit,  I  had  continued 
to  wear  the  little  gold  ring,  to  which  such  tender  and 
romantic  recollections  had  once  been  attached.  The 
coincidence  was  singular  enough.  I  took  it  off,  instead 
of  the  more  conspicuous  seal  ring,  which  had  probably 
caught  her  eye. 

"With  pleasure.  Baroness  :  but  look  at  it  first; — 
it  is  your  own!" 

•^  So  much  the  better,"  said  she,  throwing  it  into 
the  pool,  without  taking  her  eyes  off  of  the  banker's 
valuable  brilliant.  The  cards  were  re-shuffled  and  cut, 
and  the  banker  won  again.  He  swept  the  booty  off 
the  table,  and  with  it  the  pledge  of  first  love  ;  thus  lost, 
in  the  very  spot  where  it  had  been  given  and  received, 
amidst  the  warm  expressions  of  youthful  feeling,  and 
the  oft-repeated  vows  of  eternal  fidelity.  Another  of 
the  magical  results  of  Time. 

We  adjourned  to  supper,  where  most  of  the  guests 
recovered  their  serenity,  and  Augustine  afiected  a 
mirth  evidently  little  in  accord  with  her  feelings.  The 
effort  to  laugh,  while  discontent  and  vexation  lowered 
on  her  brow,  gave  a  crafty,  treacherous  character  to 
her  countenance.  Yet  I  could  not  help  trying  to  trace 
the  ingenuous  loveliness  that  had  once  enchained  me. 
There  was  symmetry  in  the  features  still  ;  but  there 
was  a  harshness  in  their  contour^  and  in  the  deep  lines 
that  scarred  her  cheeks.  While  the  black  eyes,  once 
so  beautiful,  were  now  sunk  deep  in  her  head. 

The  champaign  circulated  freely,  but  without  produ- 
cing hilarity  in  the  company.  They  only  talked  more 
and  louder,  discussing  the  scandalous  gossip  of  the  day 
with  more  wit  than  good  nature.  It  grieved  me  to 
perceive  that  the  malice  of  Augustine  exceeded  that  of 
all  the  rest  in  venom.  Even  the  guests  at  her  own 
table  did  not  escape  its  shafts.  Ah!  who  could  have 
dreamt  of  my  once  adored,  and  adorable  Augustine, 
being,  at  forty,  the  very  reverse  of  her  former  self. 
Disgust  and  ennui  took  possession  of  me  ;   and,  when 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  183 

the  gamblers  arose  from  supper  to  return  to  the  faro- 
table,  I  escaped  unperceived. 

I  regretted  having  come  to  Dresden  ;  or,  to  say 
more  truly,  I  was  pained  to  witness  Augustine^s  de- 
generacy. The  business  of  the  law-suit  compelled 
me  to  visit  her  several  times,  but  I  could  not  discover 
a  single  redeeming  point  about  her.  Once  or  twice  she 
assumed  the  tone  of  sentiment,  as  if  she  would  fain 
have  renewed  our  former  intimacy,  and  she  was  evi- 
dently piqued  at  my  coolness.  I  happened  in  the 
course  of  such  conversation,  accidentally  to  advert  to 
our  ages — ''  You  are  dreaming,  President,"  said  she, 
darting  an  angry  look  at  me — "  you  are  dreaming,  or 
3'Our  memory  must  have  failed  prematurely.  When  I 
first  knew  you  I  was  but  five  years  old,  while  you  were 
a  great  boy  of  ten,  and  more.  I  remember  it  perfectly. 
I  am  now,  therefore,  scarcel}'  thirty-five.  And,  entvb 
nous,  it  is  not  impossible  that  I  may  marry  again.  A 
.distinguished  genius,  unquestionably  the  first  poet  of 
the  age,  has  long  sighed  for  me,  and  all  his  compositions 
breathe  the  purest  flame  of  passion.^' 

I  modestly  wished  her  joy  at  having  again  kindled 
the  *' purest  flame  of  passion,"  made  my  bow,  and 
rejoiced  to  find  myself  once  more  on  the  road  to  Ade- 
laide and  my  children. 

It  is  only  when  we  have  seen  the  ravages  of  time  on 
the  forms  of  those  we  have  known  in  youth,  that  we 
are  aware  how  old  we  ourselves  have  grown.  At 
Dresden,  I  fancied  myself  twenty  years  older  than  I 
really  was.  But  when  I  embraced  my  good  and  true 
Adelaide,  while  my  children  hung  about  my  neck,  I 
felt  myself  a  boy  again. 

My  return  was  saddened,  however,  by  the  illness  of 
the  old  pastor,  my  father-in-law.  The  last  words 
which  he  addressed  to  us,  were  these :  "  It  is  true,  that, 
in  the  course  of  years,  many  of  us  are  called  to  our 
*  great  account,'  and  those  weep  who  are  left  behind. 
Yet  even  these  separations  give  dignity  to  life — uniting 
the  here  and  the  hereafter  more  intimately  in  our 
minds.  The  child  is  content  with  a  flower,  a  pebble, 
or  a  little  corner  to  play  in,  regardless  of  the  pursuits 


1S4  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

and  pleasures  of  men.  But  he  grows  up,  and  his  de- 
sires enlarge — he  seeks  wealth  and  honours — with  the 
lapse  of  years  his  views  of  life  take  a  wider  scope.  As 
the  child  ceases  to  prize  his  flower  and  pebble,  the  man 
ceases  to  value  wealth  and  honour.  The  world,  all- 
beautiful  and  wonderful  as  it  is,  is  insufficient  for  his 
soul.      He  demands  immortality,  and  obtains  it!" 

Such  were  the  death-bed  words  of  Adelaide's  pious 
father.  We  wept  at  his  departure,  but  we  loved  him 
with  a  deeper,  holier  love,  in  life  : — a  love  that  impart- 
ed holiness  to  ourselves,  since  our  affections  were  now 
divided  between  earth  and  heaven. 

Our  children  were  the  sources  of  our  earthly  happi- 
ness, for  they  were  all  good  and  amiable.  I  had  taken 
my  eldest  boy  to  the  university,  and  soon  after,  on  my 
fiftieth  birth-day,  I  was  agreeably  surprised  by  hearing 
from  my  old  friend,  the  minister,  that  his  majesty  had 
been  pleased  to  reward  my  services  with  the  honourable 
and  easy  post  which  I  now  enjoy,  and  which  by  requir- 
ing my  residence  in  the  capital,  enabled  me  to  see  my 
son  frequently  during  his  academical  studies. 

Near  three  months  elapsed  after  my  establishment  at 
Dresden,  without  my  having  seen  Augustine.  My  wife 
had  heard  the  story  of  my  first  love,  and  longed  to  be 
acquainted  with  her.  We  learnt  that  she  now  lived  in 
the  greatest  seclusion,  having  become  as  avaricious  as 
she  had  once  been  prodigal.  This  passion  had  succeed- 
ed to,  and  was  the  consequence  of  gambling,  to  which 
she  had  addicted  herself  when  the  desertion  of  admirers 
checked  the  gratification  of  her  vanity.  She  was  said 
to  be  a  constant  attendant  at  mass,  having  turned  catho- 
lic during  her  enthusiasm  for  a  poetical  lover  of  the  ro- 
mantic school,  with  the  idea  that  it  would  be  a  pictur- 
esque finale  to  her  worldly  career,  to  take  the  veil,  like 
the  Duchesse  de  la  Valliere,  whose  portrait  she  was  sup- 
posed to  resemble. 

1  felt  little  inclination  to  visit  her,  but  Adelaide  in- 
sisted that  it  was  unkind  in  me  not  to  do  so,  especially, 
as  the  Baroness's  situation  in  theworld  was  now  less  bril- 
liant than  mine.     Accordingly  we  went. 

No  burly,  pompous  porter,   with  laced  cocked-hat, 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  185 

embroidered  shoulder-band,  and  gold-headed  cane,  threw 
open  the  gates  at  my  approach.  An  old  woman  asked 
my  business  through  a  small  iron  wicket,  and  seemed  to 
admit  me  with  reluctant  suspicion.  The  green  and  gold 
lackeys  had  vanished  from  the  hall — and  at  the  sound 
of  a  bell  which  rang  above  stairs,  a  slatternly  maid  came 
down,  and  told  me,  *«her  excellency'^  was  in  the  gar- 
den. To  the  garden,  then,  I  went — this  garden,  the 
scene  of  pleasing  and  tender,  as  well  as  painful  recollec- 
tions, was  now  a  wilderness.  The  gravel  walks  were 
green  with  moss,  and  long  rank  grass  waved  sadly  upon 
the  lawn.  The  only  discernible  vestige  of  man's  care, 
was  in  the  piles  of  faggots  that  had  once  been  flowering 
shrubs — and  in  prostrate  trees  (amongst  them  the  two 
acacias)  cut  down  for  firewood. 

The  Chinese  pagoda  was  despoiled  of  its  fantastic 
ornaments,  and  a  cross  on  the  highest  pinnacle  gave  it 
the  air  of  a  chapel. 

And  such  it  proved  to  be.  The  door  stood  open,  and 
I  saw  an  altar  with  a  picture  of  the  crucifixion  over  it, 
before  which,  a  female  figure  in  black  was  kneeling. 
Just  as  my  foot  trod  the  threshold,  she  arose,  and  not- 
withstanding the  altered  style  of  dress,  and  the  absence 
of  rouge,  1  could  not  mistake  the  baroness.  I  stood 
still,  while  she  advanced  slowly,  her  eyes  bent  on  the 
ground — her  lips  moving  as  in  inward  prayer,  and  a 
rosary  in  her  fingers.  She  started  on  discovering  me, 
but  saluted  me  with  apparent  pleasure,  whilst  I  could  not 
master  the  melancholy  feelings  which  the  sight  of  the 
place  and  its  mistress  inspired. 

I  felt  the  tears  come  into  my  eyes  as  I  pressed  her 
thin  withered  hand — 

'^Ah,  Augustine!"  said  I,  <<  think  of  the  various 
times  we  have  met  in  this  spot  !  Think  when,  as  chil- 
dren, innocent  and  happy,  we  exchanged  our  leaden 
rings — before  the  rustic  table  that  stood  on  the  site  of 
yon  altar — think  when  ten  years  later  we — " 

•'  Hush!  hush!"  interrupted  the  baroness,  impetuous- 
ly, *' forbear  to  recall  such  childish  follies  within  these 
holy  precincts." 

"You  must  hear  me,  Augustine,"  continued  I,  re- 

VOL.  II. — Q  2 


186  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS  OF  GERMAN  LIFE. 

gardless  of  her  prohibition,  '<  was  it  well  to  convert  the 
temple  of  pure  and  innocent  affection  into  a  luxurious 
boudoir,  and  afterwards  into  a  gambler's  den  !  Say, 
was  it  well  to  game  away  before  my  eyes  that  little  ring, 
the  last,  and  only  memorial  of  our  early  love,  at  a  vile 
faro-table?  and  now — a  chapel  here  !" 

I  spoke  with  such  rapid  vehemence,  that  Augustine 
was  compelled,  however  unwillingly,  to  listen  to  my 
reproaches. 

**  Sir,"  she  replied,  highly  offended,  "  we  are  not  for 
ever  destined  to  wander  in  the  paths  of  error — I  have 
been  awakened  from  the  vain  and  sinful  pleasures  of  the 
world — you  pain  me  by  this  recurrence  to  the  past.  If 
you  regard  your  own  salvation,  you  would  rather  follow 
my  example,  renounce  a  wicked,  treacherous  world,  and 
seek  the  favour  of  Heaven  through  prayer  and  penance." 

I  would  not  prolong  an  interview  so  painful  and  un- 
profitable to  both  parties,  but  took  my  leave  ;  and  again 
blessed  the  wise  foresight  of  my  father,  as  determined 
never  to  repeat  my  visit,  I  pensively  returned  to  my 
happy  home. 

"  What  magic,"  thought  I,  '^  so  wonderful  as  the 
magic  of  Time  !  Augustine,  the  innocent  and  tender — 
Augustine,  the  vain  and  voluptuous— Augustine,  the 
gambler  and  miser — and  last  of  all — Augustine,  the  bigot 
and  devotee!" 


^^T    IS    VERY    POSSIBLE! 


^'IT  IS  VERY  POSSIE(LE!' 


This  was  the  favourite  exclamation  of  the  late  Baron 
Stryk.  It  would  even  creep  into  the  reports  which  he 
laid  before  the  council,  and  draw  forth  a  smile,  such  as 
we  are  wont  to  bestow  upon  our  neighbour's  foibles, 
from  his  official  brethren.  The  baron  had  possessed 
the  confidence  of  two  successive  sovereigns:  he  was 
universally  acknowledged  to  be  a  man  of  learning, 
judgment,  and  profound  knowledge  of  human  nature. 
His  reputation  on  these  points  was  perhaps  greater  than 
he  really  deserved.  He  was  not  only  esteemed,  but 
feared,  by  his  brother  diplomatists,  since  they  could 
not  trust  one  whom  they  believed  deeper  than  them- 
selves. And  yet  the  baron  was  an  open-hearted,  hon- 
ourable, conscientious  man,  whose  conduct  was  unim- 
peachable in  every  respect.  This,  however,  was  con- 
sidered as  the  result  of  double  art,  and  a  conclusive 
reason  for  being  on  their  guard  against  him.  Yet  the 
reputation  which  he  enjoyed  of  being  the  most  clear- 
sighted politician  of  his  day,  was  founded  on  little  more 
than  the  tone  in  which  he  repeated  on  every  occasion, 
"  It  is  very  possible!" 

Some  anecdotes  of  a  man  so  remarkable  in  the  poli- 
tical history  of  his  country  may  afford  amusement  to 
the  curious  in  human  peculiarities.  We  are  indebted 
for  them  partly  to  his  own  journal,  and  partly  to  the 
recollections  of  his  son. 

This  favourite  phrase  of  the  baron's  was  the  main- 
spring of  all  his  actions.  When  it  escaped  him,  as  it 
often  did  involuntarily,  he  would  consider  its  possible 
application  to  the  subject  in  point,  by  w^hich  he  was  on 


190  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

many  occasions  led  to  rectify  or  clear  his  views.  It 
influenced  not  only  his  opinions,  but  his  conduct,  so 
advantageously,  that  he  endeavoured  to  persuade  his 
only  son  Fritz  to  adopt  it. 

But  Fritz,  after  tlie  manner  of  young  people  in  ge- 
neral, imagined  himself  wiser  than  his  father,  and  was 
disposed  to  thirk  the  practice  rather  quizzical. 

''  Such  a  peculiarity  is  very  pardonable,  my  dear  fa- 
ther, in  a  man  like  you,  but  the  imitation  of  it  in  me 
would  appear  ludicrous.^' 

"  It  is  very  possible!'^  replied  the  baron,  ^*  but  what 
does  that  signify,  if  by  this  simple  expedient,  you  gain 
peace,  equanimity,  and  reflection — the  chief  compon- 
ents of  human  happiness  ? — But  if  you  will  not  expose 
yourself  to  »the  world's  dread  laugh'  by  uttering  the 
words  aloud,  at  least  utter  them  mentally  on  all  occa- 
sions." 

Fritz  smiled. 

"I  would  have  you  inherit  my  serenity  of  mind, 
Fritz,"  continued  his  father;  "and  strange,  and  perhaps 
absurd  as  you  may  think  it,  I  can  assert  with  truth,  that 
I  owe  all  I  am,  all  I  possess,  to  these  four  little  words." 

"What  could  first  induce  you  to  adopt  them?"  said 
the  young  man. 

*' Misfortune  and  despair,  under  which  my  youth 
would  have  sunk,  but  for  the  support  they  afi'orded  me. 
By  them  I  obtained  the  mastery  over  myself. 

''  My  parents  were  excellent  pious  people,  in  confin- 
ed circumstances.  They  left  barely  enough  to  defray 
my  expenses  at  college,  and  to  maintain  me  until  such 
time  as  I  might  reasonably  hope  to  obtain  some  employ- 
ment. 

"  I  was  young  and  uncorrupted — I  had  studied  much, 
and  my  imagination  had  surrounded  me  with  ideal  be- 
ings, gifted  with  all  that  is  great  and  noble  in  character. 
To  this  may  be  attributed  the  misfortunes  of  my  early 
life.  For  I  remained  ignorant  of  the  real  world,  at  one 
time  believing  it  to  be  peopled  by  angels,  and  at  ano- 
ther by  devils,  just  according  to  what  I  had  met  with 
last." 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  191 

««That  is  very  often  the  case  with  me,  even  now," 
observed  Fritz. 

*' 'Tis  very  possible/'  rejoined  his  father,  ^'For 
the  young  man  who  has  never  fallen  into  such  errors, 
must  either  be  cold  or  corrupted.  //  faut  en  passer 
par  la. 

'*  To  resume  my  story — I  was  obliged  to  work  as  an 
unsalaried  clerk  for  a  considerable  time,  before  I  ob- 
tained an  insignificant  office  with  a  meagre  stipend.  I 
did  not,  however,  complain,  as  it  was  in  the  natural 
course  of  things,  and  I  was  prepared  for  it.  I  concealed 
my  poverty — for  had  it  been  known,  both  high  and  low, 
rich  and  poor,  would  have  rated  me  far  below  my  real 
merits.  I  took  care,  therefore,  always  to  be  well  dressed, 
occupied  good  lodgings,  and  frequented  the  best  com- 
pany. Now  and  then,  too,  I  even  consented  to  join  a 
party  of  pleasure,  where  I  knew  I  should  be  called  on 
to  spend  more  than  was  convenient  to  me.  Yet  with 
all  this,  I  kept  clear  of  debts,  a  point  which  always  tells 
in  favour  of  a  young  man  of  my  age  and  situation  in 
life — and  while  every  body  believed  me  to  be  in  afflu- 
ent circumstances,  I  really  spent  very  little.  All  this 
while  no  one  suspected  the  fact,  that  I  lived  more  fru- 
gally than  any  galley  slave — never  tasting  anything  but 
bread  and  w'ater,  or  milk.  Still  I  was  happy,  not  only 
in  the  consciousness  of  duty  faithfully  discharged,  and 
in  the  hope  of  a  more  prosperous  fortune,  but  I  was 
really  content  with  my  present  lot,  and  not  without 
reason,  far  I  was  everywhere  well  received  ;  I  was  popu- 
lar with  the  women;  and  not  disliked  by  the  men. 

"  Amongst  the  latter,  however,  I  had  but  one  chosen 
and  intimate  friend,  a  young  lawyer, nam.ed  Schneemul- 
ler.  It  might  have  been  said  that  we  had  but  one  heart 
and  one  wiii,  so  perfectly  did  our  tastes  and  feelings  ac- 
cord. He  had  risked  his  life  for  me  in  a  duel  at  the  uni- 
versity, and  given  me  a  thousand  proofs  of  friendship 
afterwards. 

^' Among  my  female  acquaintance  there  was  also  one 
whom  I  preferred  to  all  the  rest.  Philippine,  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  old  General  Von  Tyten.  I  loved  her  long  in 
silence,  unconscious  how  deeply.    I  looked  up  to  her  as 


192  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

a  being  of  a  superior  orcler,  and  never  approached  but 
with  humble  adoration.  My  passion  was  known  only  to 
my  own  heart,  for  I  could  nevei'  i^ring  myself  to  disclose 
it.  There  are  feelings  so  sacred,  that  we  fear  to  profane 
them  by  utterance.  Hence  our  reluctance  to  speak  to  a 
third  person  of  our  love,  or  to  discuss  our  religious  sen- 
timents in  company." 

*^  Did  you  not  confide  your  feelings  to  your  friend?" 

**No,  not  even  to  him — on  the  contrary,  I  heard  first 
from  him  what  seemed  at  the  time  incredible — that  it 
w'as  generally  said  Philippine  was  in  love  with  me,  and 
that  some  unpleasant  scenes  had  passed  between  her  and 
her  mother  in  consequence. 

*^  Schneemuller's  information  was,  however,  confirm- 
ed about  six  months  after,  when  Philippine  and  I  hap- 
pening to  visit  a  mutual  friend  at  the  same  time,  the  op- 
portunities of  greater  intimacy  afforded  by  a  country 
house,  led  to  the  disclosure  of  our  respective  feelings. 
Of  course  we  swore,  and  believed  that  our  love  could 
only  terminate  with  life. 

*<From  this  moment  I  w^as  in  heaven,  and  fortune 
seemed  to  shower  her  favours  upon  me.  I  obtained  a 
place  in  the  Dowager  Duchess's  household,  with  a  re- 
spectable s.dary. 

*'The  gulf  between  me  and  Philippine  seemed  to  con- 
tract.— The  general  began  to  treat  me  more  confiden- 
tially, and  his  wife  was  less  hard  upon  Philippine  for 
her  romantic  notions  on  certain  subjects. 

*^Soon  after  this  a  distant  relation  died  in  Batavia, 
and  left  me  all  his  property,  which  was  very  considera- 
ble, and  vested  in  the  Dutch  funds,  from  whence  it 
could  not  be  drawn  without  some  formalities.  I  rejoic- 
ed in  this  accession,  but  only  for  Philippine's  sake. 

'*  About  this  time  Count  Cronstad,  a  handsome  young 
man,  and  our  sovereign's  favourite,  began  to  pay  her 
great  attention.  She  perceived  that  I  was  uneasy,  and 
not  only  laughed  and  coaxed  my  jealousy  away,  but 
urged  me  also  to  make  serious  proposals  to  her  father. 
I  was  a  shy  man,  and  detested  such  stupid  formalities, 
but  I  prepared  to  comply.  It  was  necessary,  in  the  first 
place,  that  I  should  goto  Amsterdam  to  take  possession 


OP  GERMAN  LIFE.  193 

of  my  cousin's  bequest,  that  I  might  be  provided  with 
all  the  qualifications  the  old  general  would  require  in  a 
son-in-law.  The  idea  of  such  a  long  journey  was,  how- 
ever, disagreeable  to  me  ;  partly  because  1  could  not 
bear  the  separation  from  Philippine  ;  partly  because 
she  herself  objected  to  my  going  ;  and  partly  because 
the  continued  assiduities  of  the  handsome  and  brilliant 
count,  made  me  a  little  fidgetty  still.  At  last  it  was 
agreed  that,  instead  of  going  myself,  I  should  give  a 
letter  of  attorney  to  Schneemuller,  v/hose  knowledge 
of  law  would  enable  him  to  expedite  matters,  should  any 
difficulty  arise  with  the  executors." 

^'How  comes  it,''  asked  Fritz,  "that  I  never  heard 
you  speak  of  this  friend  of  yours  before." 

*^That  you  shall  see,"  replied  his  father.  ''Days 
and  weeks  passed,  without  a  line  from  Schneemuller. 
1  wrote  to  him  again  and  again.  At  last  it  struck  me 
that  some  dreadful  accident  must  have  befallen  him  in 
the  way,  or  that  he  must  be  very  ill.  Love  gave  way 
to  friendship  ;  and,  in  spite  of  Philippine's  tears,  I  set 
on  for  Amsterdam. 

*'  I  inquired  at  every  relay,  and  traced  my  friend  by 
the  livre  des  voyageurs.  On  my  arrival  at  Amsterdam, 
I  drove  straight  to  the  mercantile  house  with  which  he 
was  to  have  transacted  the  chief  part  of  the  business.  I 
found  that  he  had  been  there,  and  had  received  the 
whole  amount  of  my  inheritance,  on  giving  the  proper 
receipts,  which  were  shown  to  me. 

''I  continued  my  search,  and  with  the  aid  of  the  po- 
lice, I  discovered  that  a  man  answering  to  the  descrip- 
tion I  gave  of  Schneemuller's  figure  had  embarked  about 
three  weeks  before,  in  an  American  ship  for  New  York. 
I  kept  repeating  to  myself,  and  to  every  body  else.  '  It 
is  impossible  !'  But  the  fact  was  ascertained  beyond 
all  doubt.     My  best  and  only  friend  had  betrayed  me!" 

''Horrible  !"  exclaimed  Fritz. 

"  Distress  of  mind  and  fatigue  threw  me  into  a  fever. 
As  soon,  however,  as  I  was  able  to  travel,  I  returned 
home,  broken-hearted,  not  for  the  loss  of  my  money, 
though  that  was  serious  enough,  since  it  might  prove  an 
obstacle  to  my  union  with  Philippine  ;  but  for  the  loss 
Vol.  II.— R 


194  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

of  my  friend,  and  for  the  loss  of  what  was  far  more  pre- 
cious to  me  than  all  the  gold  of  Peru  ;  my  confidence 
in  human  nature! 

"  I  arrived  too  late  to  present  myself  that  evening  at 
General  Von  Tyten's,  otherwise  I  should  have  flown  to 
Philippine,  whom  I  had  apprized  by  letter  of  my  mis- 
fortune as  soon  as  I  discovered  it.  The  proprietor  of 
the  house  in  which  I  lodged,  an  old  companion  in  office, 
came  in  to  see  me,  just  as  1  had  made  up  my  mind  to 
postpone  my  visit  till  to-morrow.  After  returning  his 
salutation,  I  asked  what  news." 

^'Nothing  particular,^'  replied  he,  "  nothing  but  what 
you  probably  know  already — General  Von  Tyten's 
beautiful  daughter  is  at  last  married." 

<' Impossible!"  I  exclaimed.  ««  You  are  jesting,  or 
dreaming." 

<«  Neither  one  or  the  other.  She  is  married  to  Count 
Cronstad." 

«•  Count  Cronstad!  imposssible!     It  cannnot  be!" 

<^  How  very  strange,"  said  he,  '<  that  you  should  not 
have  heard  what  made  so  much  noise  here.  But  the 
wonder  is  near  a  fortnight  old,  and  has  ceased  to  be  talk- 
ed about." 

<'My  friend  gave  a  circumstantial  detail  of  all  that 
was  known  respecting  the  marriage,  by  which  it  appear- 
ed that  Philippine  had  not  required  much  persuasion  to 
give  her  hand  to  this  rich  and  powerful  young  nobleman, 
and  that,  too,  shortly  after  receiving  the  account  of  my 
disasters  at  Amsterdam.  I  could  not,  however,  give 
full  credit  to  my  informant,  but  exclaimed  at  every 
pause  in  his  narrative,  'impossible!'  <  I  can't  believe 
it !' 

**  I  spent  the  night  in  great  agitation,  yet  trying  all 
the  time  to  persuade  myself  that  it  was  a  mistake  of  my 
gossiping  host's  ;  still  repeating  ''tis  impossible!  im- 
possible that  Philippine  should  prove  a  jilt!'  Before 
twelve  o'clock  the  next  day,  however,  I  had  heard  the 
confirmation  of  my  misfortune,  not  only  from  a  dozen 
acquaintances  whom  I  met  on  my  way  to  the  general's, 
but  from  the  general  himself,  who  was  still  so  pre-occu- 
pied  by  his  daughter's  good  fortune,  that  he  never  ob- 
served the  consternation  which  I  must  have  betrayed." 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  195 

<i  Infamous  !''  cried  Fritz,  his  indignation  boiling 
over. 

<^  So  I  thought  at  the  time,"  continued  the  baron, 
'^  for  though  the  general  had  not  committed  himself  by 
any  positive  promise,  since  I  had  not  yet  made  any  for- 
mal proposal,  yet  he  could  not  but  have  perceived  the 
terms  on  which  I  was  with  Philippine.  Thus  betrayed 
by  the  two  persons  in  whom  all  my  affections,  and  all 
my  happiness  were  centered,  I  trusted  nothing  more  on 
earth.  The  love  of  woman,  the  truth  of  man,  and  the 
stability  of  fortune,  were  to  me  but  as  .shadows.  All 
that  I  had  supposed  impossible,  had  happened — and  to 
the  strangest  and  most  unlikely  things,  I  always  answer- 
ed, ^  it  is  very  possible  !' 

"  In  these  words  is  contained  the  whole  of  that  wis- 
dom for  which  the  world  has  been  pleased  to  give  me 
credit.  I  resolved  not  only  to  utter,  but  to  think  them 
on  every  occassion.  They  were  my  comfort  under  af- 
fliction. I  learned  to  depend  on  nothing  here  below, 
save  my  own  W'ill.  Canst  thou  ever  again  be  happy  ? 
have  I  said  to  myself.  *  It  is  very  possible,'  was  the 
reply,  and  so  it  proved.  Fortune's  favours  dazzled  me 
no  more,  for  I  thought  of  the  past— and  felt  that  evil 
days  might  come  again. 

<^One  of  my  happiest  days  was  that  on  which  you, 
Fritz,  first  saw  the  light.  But  I  tempered  my  joy  with 
the  reflectioh  that  death  might  snatch  you  from  me,  or 
you  might  live,  and  turn  out  a  scoundrel.  The  < 'tis 
possible,'  sobered  me,  and  I  was  armed  against  the 
worst." 

^^  But  God  be  praised,  father,"  said  Fritz,  <*  neither 
has  happened." 

^' Yet  they  were  not  the  less  possible,  Fritz — since  I 
adopted  these  words  for  my  motto,  I  take  every  bright 
moment  as  a  gift  from  Heaven  ;  but  without  supposing 
that  it  is  to  last.  In  the  same  manner  I  am  resigned  in 
every  dark  one,  equally  persuaded  that  the  light  will 
dawn  again." 

No  one  can  dispute  the  truth  of  the  Privy  Counsel- 
lor's theory,  yet  his  favourite  saying  brought  him  into 
more  scrapes  than  one,  at  least  into  what  most  people 


196  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

would  have  deemed  such.  But  his  serenity  was  not 
easily  troubled.  For  instance,  one  day,  about  the  time 
of  the  French  revolution,  a  cabinet  council  was  held,  at 

which  his  sovereign,  the  elector   of was  present. 

Business  being  over,  a  conversation  ensued  relative  to 
the  late  horrible  outrages  committed  at  Paris  and  Lyons. 
"Who  could  have  supposed,"  said  the  Elector,  "that  a 
nation  hitherto  so  slavishly  devoted  to  their  kings, 
would  have  proceeded  to  such  opposite  extrem.ities  ! 
Frenchmen  only  could  be  guilty  of  such  inconsistency. 
I  am  quite  sure  that  neither  my  subjects,  nor  those  of 
any  other  German  Prince,  would  rejoice  over  the  fall 
of  their  sovereign.     Do  you  think  it  possible — Stryk!" 

But  Stryk  had  been  absorbed  in  his  own  meditations 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  conversation,  and  of  the 
question  addressed  to  him  by  the  Prince,  he  had  only 
heard  the  last  words.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
mechanically  repeated  his  favourite  phrase.  "  'Tis  very 
possible  !" 

The  Elector  made  a  step  backwards.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ?"  said  he,  '^  what  motive  have  you  for  suppos- 
ing that  my  people  would  rejoice  in  my  destruction  ?" 

"  It  is  very  posible,'^  replied  Stryk,  awaking  from 
his  reverie.  "We  cannot  see  into  futurity,  nothing  is 
so  unstable  as  the  people,  for  the  people  consists  of  men, 
every  one  of  whom  prefers  himself  to  his  sovereign.  A 
new  order  of  things  gives  birth  to  new  prospects — new 
hopes.  The  hope  of  obtaining  a  good,  is  even  more  se- 
ductive than  the  possession  of  the  good  itself.  Much 
and  deservedly  as  your  Electorial  Highness  is  beloved 
by  your  people,  I  would  not  swear  that  in  altered  cir- 
cumstances, forgetful  of  your  benefits,  they  would  not 
illuminate  and  shout  for  a  republic,  or  for  the  success  of 
a  usurper.      It  is  very  possible." 

"  You  are  not  in  your  senses.  Counsellor  Stryk,"  re- 
plied the  Elector,  angrily,  and  turning  upon  his  heel. 

Stryk  fell  into  disgrace,  and  every  body  called  him  a 
fool. 

A  few  years  after  this,  the  French  armies  crossed  the 
Rhine.  The  Elector  and  his  court  took  flight.  The 
people  shouted  for  liberty  and  equality,  pulled  down  the 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  197 

electoral  arms,  and  illuminated  the  capital  for  his  de- 
parture. 

Stryk's  experience  and  efficiency  as  a  man  of  busi- 
ness, might  have  obtained  him  a  high  appointment  under 
the  new  government,  but  the  well-known  cause  of  his 
disgrace  with  the  Elector  insured  it.  He  was  looked 
upon  as  a  victim  of  the  Prince's  despotism,  and  the  new 
order  of  things  being  confirmed,  he  recovered  his  charac- 
ter for  wisdom.  Though  his  mind  was  naturally  ardent, 
he  never  indulged  in  political  enthusiasm.  He  exhibit- 
ed no  party-spirit,  and  consequently  the  Jacobins  sus- 
pected him  of  being  at  heart  a  royalist  ;  while  the  roy- 
alists hated  him  for  the  Jacobinical  principles  which  they 
thought  he  disguised  under  outward  moderation.  He 
laughed  at  both,  and  honestly  discharged  his  duty. 

A  member  of  the  French  republican  government 
visited  the  apartment.  He  was  received  with  all  possi- 
ble distinction.  Every  body  crowded  round  him,  and 
sought  to  obtain  importance  in  his  eyes.  Amongst  them 
there  were  not  wanting  some,  who  tried  to  attain  their 
object,  by  insinuating  doubts  as  to  the  sincerity  of 
Stryk's  attachment  to  the  republic.  An  entertainment 
was  given  in  honour  of  the  Frenchman.  After  drink- 
ing with  **  enthusiasm,"  as  the  newspapers  would  say, 
to  the  rights  of  the  people,  the  cause  of  freedom  all 
over  the  world,  and  the  victorious  career  of  the  republic, 
the  great  man  addressed  himself  to  Stryk,  who  sat  next 
him,  and  said, — ^<  Nothing  surprises  me  more  than  that 
these  monarchs  should  still  venture  to  oppose  us.  It 
can  only  hasten  their  own  destruction.  Our  glorious 
revolution  will  set  an  example  to  all  the  rest  of  the 
world.  What  can  the  fools  hope  for  ?  Do  they  imagine 
that  all  their  armies  united  can  subdue  the  greatest  na- 
tion in  the  universe,  and  force  the  detested  race  of  Bour- 
bon upon  us  ? — Blockheads  !  All  Europe  shall  perish 
first! — What  say  you,  citizen  !  Do  you  thing  it  proba- 
ble that  monarchy  should  ever  be  re-established  in 
France  ?" 

''  Certainly  not  probable,"  replied  Stryk,  ^^  but  very 
possible." 

*'  How  !  very  possible  !"  cried  the  Frenchman,  in  a 

VOL.   II. — R  2 


i9S  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

voice  that  startled  the  company — ^^No  man  can  be  a 
true  friend  to  liberty  who  doubts  of  its  duration.  I 
am  sorry,  citizen,  that  a  man  so  high  in  office  as  you  are, 
should  hold  such  doctrines.  How  can  you  defend 
them  ?" 

'*  ^VHiy  it  is  very  possible,"  calmly  returned  Stryk. 
*'^  Athens  first  submitted  to  a  Pericles  and  then  to  a  king 
of  Macedon.  Rome  first  bowed  the  neck  to  a  trium- 
virate, then  to  a  Ctesar,  and  lastly  to  a  Nero.  England 
beheaded  her  king — was  governed  by  a  Cromwell — and 
ended  by  recalling  Charles  II.'' 

'^Why  quote  Greeks,  Romans,  and  English?"  said 
the  Frenchman.  "What  have  we  to  do  with  nations 
so  utterly  devoid  of  character,  and  fit  for  slavery  alone  ? 
Ycu  cannot,  surely,  compare  them  with  the  French  ? 
But  I  forgive  your  mistaken  views.  You  are  born  on 
the  wrong  side  of  the  Rhine." 

Notwithstanding  this  assurance  of  forgiveness,  Stryk 
was  arrested  soon  after  ;  deprived  of  his  office,  and 
subjected  to  a  series  of  vexatious  interrogatories,  for 
having  promulgated  sentiments  unfavourable  to  liberty. 

In  a  few  )'ears  Napoleon  became  first  consul,  then 
consul  for  life,  then  emperor  and  king. 

Stryk's  acknowledged  ability  and  uprightness,  and  the 
circumstance  of  his  having  constantly  belonged  to  the 
moderate  party,  caused  him  to  be  restored  to  his  former 
rank  and  employments.  From  this  time  he  was  held 
in  higiier  estimation  than  ever;  so  much  of  what  he 
had  foretold  had  come  to  pass,  that  he  was  looked  upon 
as  a  political  prophet.  Napoleon  m.etamorphosed  the 
world,  and  gave  away  thrones.  Stryk  became  the  ser- 
vant of  one  of  ihe  new  made  monarchs,  who  loaded  him 
with  honours.  Republican  principles  went  out  of  fash- 
ion, and  all  bowed  before  the  new  sovereign.  Each 
flattering  himself  that  he  alone  had  preserved  his  senses, 
am.id  the  general  intoxication.  No  greater  insult  could 
be  ofi'ered  to  a  man  than  to  insinuate  that  he  had  ever 
ceased  to  be  a  royalist. 

'<  I  see  no  cause  for  offence,"  said  the  counsellor  one 
morning,  when  an  altercation,  mixed  up  with  bitter 
taunts  and  reproaches,  arose  amongst  a  party  of  his  most 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.'  109 

intimate  friends — "  You  do  ill  to  upbraid  one  another 
with  having  caught  an  epidemic,  from  which  none  altoge- 
ther escaped,  and  which  may  return  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances.    It  is  very  possible,  believe  me." 

'^  What !  do  you  take  me  for  such  a  fool  ?  I,  at  least," 
indignantly  said  or  thought  each  of  those  to  whom  lie 
addressed  himself, — '^  am  not  so  easily  blown  about  by 
every  wind  that  blows!" 

"You  remind  me  of  the  Egyptian  sultan  in  the 
Spectator,"  said  Stryk.  <«  He  piqued  himself  on  the 
strength  of  mind  which  raised  him  above  the  prejudices 
and  superstitions  of  the  vulgar.  Among  the  sacred 
subjects  which  he  was  fond  of  ridiculing,  was  the  chap- 
ter of  the  Koran  in  which  it  is  related,  that  the  angel 
Gabriel  appeared  to  Mahomet  one  morning,  as  he  lay  in 
bed,  and  conducted  him  through  hell  and  the  seven  hea- 
vens. Mahomet  not  onl}'-  saw  all  that  was  to  be  seen, 
but  held  ninety  thousand  conferences  with  God,  and  all 
in  so  short  a  space  of  time,  that  on  his  return  to  earth, 
he  found  his  bed  still  warm,  and  a  pitcher  of  water 
which  he  had  overturned  at  his  departure,  not  quite 
emptied.  One  day  that  the  sultan  was  exercising  his 
wit  on  this  miracle,  in  the  presence  of  a  Santon,  re- 
nowned for  sanctity,  and  supposed  to  have  perform.ed 
miracles, — the  holy  man  promised  to  heal  the  sultan  of 
his  incredulity,  if  he  would  do  as  he  directed.  The 
sultan  assented,  and  the  Santon  led  him  to  a  tub  of  water, 
and  desired  him  to  plunge  liis  head  in,  and  drav/  it  out 
again  immediately.  The  sultan  did  as  he  was  directed, 
and  scarcely  felt  the  cold  water  touch  his  head,  when 
he  found  himself  alone  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain  on  the 
sea  shore.  He  cursed  the  Santon,  and  resolved  to  make 
him  repent  his  temerity.  But  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done  but  to  submit  to  his  fate.  Fortunately,  he  spied 
some  woodcutters  at  a  little  distance,  who  directed  him 
to  a  city  on  the  other  side  of  the  wood.  He  dared  not 
say  he  was  the  sultan  of  Egypt,  for  who  u^ould  believe 
it  at  such  a  distance  from  home,  for  the  woodcutters 
had  told  him  that  he  was  on  the  shore  of  the  Caspian 
Sea. 

'« After  many  adventures  he  gained  the  favour  of  a 


200  LIGHTS    AND   SHADOWS 

rich  man,  who  gave  him  his  daughter  in  marriage.  She 
brought  him  seven  sons,  and  as  many  daughters,  and 
then  died.  By  a  series  of  misfortunes  he  was  plunged 
into  extreme  misery,  and  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  beg- 
ging his  bread  in  the  streets.  He  wept  at  the  remem.- 
brance  of  all  his  former  power  and  magnificence,  and  ac- 
knowledged this  reverse  to  be  a  just  punishment  for  his 
unbelief.  Thus  repentant,  he  undertook  a  pilgrimage 
to  Mecca.  He  stopped  before  he  ventured  to  enter  the 
city,  to  bathe  in  the  river.  He  undressed  and  plunged  in^ 
On  raising  his  head  above  the  water,  however,  he  was  as- 
tonished to  find,  that  instead  of  being  in  the  river,  he 
was  standing  by  the  tub,  in  the  presence  of  the  Santon 
and  all  his  court  ;  and  still  more  to  learn  from  them, 
that  he  had  never  moved  from  the  spot,  but  had  merely 
dipped  his  head  into  the  water,  and  taken  it  out  again. 

«« You,  my  good  friends,"  continued  the  counsellor, 
«<are  in  the  same  predicament  as  the  Egyptian  sultan. 
Had  any  one  told  you  before  the  revolution,  what  you 
would  do  during  its  course,  you  would  not  have  believ- 
ed him.  Your  heads  are  now  out  of  the  tub,  and  you 
will  not  confess  what  you  thought,  felt,  or  did,  during 
the  magical  moment.  Should  the  emigre  Bourbons  and 
nobles  return,  to  France,  (and  it  is  very  possible)  I 
wager,  that  you  will  disbelieve  the  reality  of  all  that  has 
happened  since  1789,  and  stand,  like  the  sultan  by  the 
side  of  the  tub,  rejoicing  that  all  he  had  undergone  was 
but  the  <*  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision.'  " 

The  company  laughed.  The  counsellor's  story  had 
at  least  given  them  time  to  cool,  and  all  were  now  in 
good  humour,  while  a  few  even  allowed  that  he  was 
right.  In  fact,  he  lived  to  see  the  fall  of  Napoleon, 
and  the  restoration  of  legitimate  monarchy. 

This  re-action  could  not  prove  dangerous  to  a  man  of 
Stryk's  opinions,  especially  as  he  was  disgraced  towards 
the  close  of  Napoleon's  career,  on  account  of  an  unfor- 
tunate application  of  his  favourite  saying,  to  the  event 
of  the  projected  invasion  of  Russia. 

The  nevv  legitimate  of  course  re-appointed  all  who 
had  incurred  the  displeasure  of  the  ^'  Corsican  usurper," 
and  Stryk  was  again  in  office.     But  he  did  not  continue 


OF  GERMAN  LIFE.  201 

there  long.  The  sovereign  giving  him  to  understand, 
one  day,  that  his  having  served  under  so  many  difierent 
governments,  occasioned  his  being  looked  upon  as  a 
trimmer. 

^^It  is  very  possible,"  replied  the  old  man,  in  his  dry 
mechanical  manner.  ^'  For,"  he  added  after  a  moment's 
thought,  ^^  I  have  ever  been  a  faithful  serv^ant  of  the 
state." 

^^  That  is  somewhat  contradictory,"  said  the  prince. 
*^  How  can  a  man  be  called  a  faithful  servant  of  the 
state,  who  pays  court  to  a  rightful  master,  one  day  ;  and 
to  an  usurper  the  next  ?" 

**  Just  because  I  have  alwaj'-s  endeavoured,  sir,  to  be 
the  servant  of  the  state  and  not  of  a  master.  Under 
bad  rulers,  it  becomes  doubly  the  duty  of  every  friend 
of  his  country  to  devote  himself  to  its  service." 

This  distinction  between  the  ruler  and  the  people, 
sounded  somewhat  radical  in  the  ears  of  the  legitimate; 
and  it  was  not  long  before  the  counsellor  received  his 
eong6  with  a  retiring  pension.  But,  even  in  retirement, 
he  preserved  the  esteem  which  his  upright  conduct  had 
obtained  amidst  all  the  political  changes,  as  w^ell  as  his 
reputation  for  political  sagacity. 

Being  complimented  by  a  friend,  upon  his  singular 
gift  of  anticipating  the  various  changes  of  governments, 
he  smiled  and  said,  *<  It  is  easy  to  obtain  a  reputation 
for  superior  foresight.  With  a  sound  understanding  and 
sang-froid,  a  man  may  discern  much,  while  the  rest  of 
the  world,  blind  with  passion,  run  against  and  confound 
one  another." 

^'  I  wish  you  would  but  teach  me  your  art!"  said  one 
of  his  panegyrists. 

"  It  is  very  possible  ;"  he  replied.  *«  In  order  to  see 
into  the  future,  we  must  look  at  the  past  :  the  prophet's 
mirror  hangs  far  behind  him." 


THE  END. 


